


The Bend in the Road

by chasingtheskyline



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Adoption???, And Pippa Pentangle is the shiny rock on which everything rests, Chronic Illness, Established Hicsqueak, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, Foster Care, Grief, Hecate Hardbroom is the goth Marilla Cuthbert foster mom we all deserve, I've given HB all my weird undiagnosed symptoms (because I like projecting just roll with it), In which Julie Hubble dies, Mildred Hubble is returned to her roots as an L.M. Montgomery character, Other, Pain, so much pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 17:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14773889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingtheskyline/pseuds/chasingtheskyline
Summary: After Julie Hubble's sudden and untimely death, a grieving Mildred Hubble must make a home with one very traditional, very dramatic, very emotionally constipated potions mistress. And Hecate Hardbroom is not one for change, especially since change means she loses control of everything that keeps her life in balance. Miss Pippa Pentangle is there to lend a hand, of course, but spending a summer together would be at the very least a learning experience under the best of circumstances. What transpires under these worst of circumstances is transformative for all.





	1. Thunder

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in a LONG time, and the first one I've written so prolifically for (it's two weeks old and already a little monster--the plot bunnies keep breeding). I'm a bit late to this fandom, but this show and these characters mean a lot to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thunder. My heart trembles.  
> I lift my head from my pillow and listen.  
> It is not a chariot."  
> -Fu Hsuan
> 
> In which something tragic befalls Julie Hubble, because though I love her dearly, she is incredibly killable. Enid Nightshade, the darling, is tactless. Hecate Hardbroom does not enjoy the disruption of her solitude and is grumpy because of it, but a chat with Pippa sets her on course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I haven't written a fic in approximately a year and a half. I'm also new to this fandom, so here goes nothing. Consider this a little gift, or a large gift depending on how long it gets, because I adore these characters and nothing has made me want to write like this pretty much ever. And thanks to the extensive and beautiful fanon that has already been created.

 It was only a headache. Or at least, that's what she had said. Julie Hubble, face shot through with white, before she crumpled out of consciousness on the red corduroy couch, on the night everything changed.

 They were just about to start dinner in front of the TV, over the news. It was mid June, two weeks into summer break, and things had returned to a somewhat-normal state. Flying practice was going well, and Mildred had managed to avoid crashing into a tree the entire time.

 At least, until that same feeling smacked into her now, with no tree in sight.

  _“999, which service do you require?”_

 “Ambulance.”

  _“This is Emergency Services, my name is Rosalie, how may I help you?”_

 “Yes, my mum, um, she’s not waking up, she said she had a headache and then she fainted, um, what do I do?”

  _“Is she breathing?”_

 Mildred took tentative steps over toward her mother, brushing blonde curls out of the way to check for a pulse on the side of her neck. The pressure of blood was very faint under her fingers, almost imperceptible. “Maybe.”

  _“All right--what's your name, love?”_

 The words came out choked, her mouth like sandpaper. What saliva came to wet it tasted bitter, metallic. “Mildred Hubble. Millie.”

  _“All right, Millie. The ambulance is on its way. They're going to try and revive her, and then you're going to go to A &E, okay?”_

 “Okay.”

  _“I’ll stay on the line.”_

Hell itself is less terrifying than A&E on a Friday night, even when one's mother isn't hooked up to a plastic oxygen mask on a gurney wheeled by shouting men looking for CAT scans and MRIs and medical history, stat. Mildred sat in a corner, clutching the pillow a paramedic gave her, and listened to the cacophony of orders and beeping and metal and screams of pain. He was a nice Irish man, the paramedic in the ambulance, from Belfast. He spoke with a thick accent and invited her to sit beside him on the bench next to the gurney, as she held her mother's cold, clammy hand. Now she was in a chair, and things were still, but there was no one to talk to, nothing to say, just the world happening around her. It was like being trapped in one of the photos on the walls. Or under an invisibility potion.

 It took them hours to return to her. When they did, a doctor with salt-and-pepper hair gave her the news, half-distracted, hands trembling. “She's had a stroke, due to a large aneurysm—that's like a bubble of blood—in her brain. It's uncommon for her age, especially since she's so healthy, but it can happen. We won't know the damage until she wakes up.”

 “What can I do?”

 “I can ring you if anything changes,” Mildred scribbled her cell phone number down on a scrap of paper as the doctor continued, “But for now, get some sleep. Is there anyone who can collect you so that you can see her in the morning?”

 “No. I can walk home.” And though I can't tell you how, she did.

 

* * *

 

 Mildred didn't remember mirroring Enid Nightshade at two in the morning, face hot and red with tears. Or Enid, in her purple pajamas, screaming for her parents in the dark of her bedroom, once the grogginess of sleep had worn off a bit. The Nightshades came to collect her around six, and she was heavy and sluggish with exhaustion.

 Mildred slept on and off for about two days, and could eat very little. She stayed in one of the many empty bedrooms in the Nightshade house, a large, Gothic mansion out of a fairy tale situated in a magical hamlet smack in the middle of Dorset. It was pretty, with a four-poster bed with red curtains and a carved fireplace, but the mattress was hard, and Tabby kept getting lost, and there was no Mum of whom to seek warmth when the worry overcame her. After she awoke, the entire place was noisy and frantic, as Enid’s parents were preparing for tour, so Enid and she spent most of their time in the garden, sitting, quite like Mildred did in hospital. The space was capacious and easy, even if a little overgrown. The pond babbled pleasantly in the background of whispered internal thoughts, and the flowers were colorful and soft to the touch, like velvet feathers. Still, Mildred’s head rang with pain.

 “Do you think she’ll be all right?” Enid said tactlessly on the third day, to fill the aching silence.

 “I hope so.”

 “You should be getting a ring soon,” she made an aimless gesture toward Mildred’s smartphone. “On your...machine?”

 “Maybe.”

 “She’ll be all right, Millie. Promise.” Enid reached over to give her a hug just as a pair of winged dancing shoes came flying through the window, and a bunch of fireworks set the living room alight. “Dad, are the curtains ruined again?”

 They were.

 “What are your favorite flowers? The irises are out. And the purple climbing flowers—clematis, they're called.” Enid chuckled. “I like those. Sometimes I climb on the roof in winter using the trellis as a ladder.”

 “That’s nice. I like foxglove.”

 “Like, Felicity?” Enid smirked, one eyebrow sky-high.

 Mildred gave a huff, rolling her eyes. “You know what I mean. I’ve painted them loads of times, and it's always difficult to get the color gradient right.”

 Then the call came.

  _“Mildred Hubble? Your mother—”_ _Paralyzed. Cardiac arrest. Died this afternoon. I’m sorry._ The world went white after that, and Mildred couldn't find her balance until the floor tilted up to meet her head.

 Then, several more days in limbo. They all bled into each other like watercolor, so that Mildred couldn't tell which was which. She paced about in a perpetual state of not knowing what time it was or what was going on, except when someone told her. All her thoughts were on Mum: the muscles in her face slack, her mouth lopsided, unable to open her eyes or move her hands to eat, with a feeding tube up her nose, all in a coffin. The funeral was pretty, though. Closed casket. Maud came with her Gran and stayed the night, and they sat and played tic-tac-toe on their maglets until the wee hours. One lunchtime the hunger pangs twisted Mildred’s insides so that she could take three bites of chicken in a single sitting.

 Enid was rather fractious, what with all her parents’ trunks stacked high in corners, and she off to Cairo until school began to see her aunt Evangelina, who studied the magical properties of newts. Mildred sat through stories about this aunt’s daring escapades for several hours, and it helped her take her mind off of things, but it wasn't nearly as pleasant as Enid hoped.

 Mildred didn't quite know how Misses Cackle and Hardbroom ended up in the Nightshades’ parlor one afternoon over tea, and she didn't really care. She eavesdropped for something to do while Enid packed her trunk for the fifth time, and the words that came through the door, like _guardian_ and _no family_ and _won't take her_ , chilled her to the core. Hot tears began to roll down her cheeks, the uncertainty and suddenness of it all gripping her by the throat. Her nose began to ache, and she wet the handkerchief Mrs Nightshade insisted she carry with her clean through.

 Mildred got up and moved to a soft chair in Enid’s private sitting room. It was painted white, with low, pink-upholstered furniture and levitating shelves that picked up everything that was knocked off them. The door locked shut, too. She would not be disturbed. She sobbed without shame for several minutes, the pain wracking her body.

Then, quite out of the blue, Miss Hardbroom materialized two feet from where Mildred sat. She wore an almost casual white blouse and gored black skirt, her face pinched into what, on her, couldn't be called a scowl. “Mildred Hubble,” she sniffed, her eyes betraying deep-seated annoyance, “apparently you are to stay with me. Your things are in the hall. We must go.”

 Mildred took half a second to dry her tears before responding, face toward her feet. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

 

* * *

 

 Hecate Hardbroom’s house was a tiny, whitewashed cottage in Cumbria, with woods on one side and sea on the other. Mildred imagined it to be beautiful when days were sunny, but when they arrived it was drizzling steadily, and the place looked as if it would hold onto every last modicum of cold. But the low-ceilinged kitchen was warm, stuffed to the gills with potions, ingredients, and pots. The fire in the grate flickered bright but small. A rough-hewn set of table and chairs for three were situated on the opposite wall, with a modern electric refrigerator to one side. One wing-backed brocade armchair stood in state by the fire, Miss Hardbroom’s own and hers alone, completing the room. On the east wall a narrow, winding staircase not unlike the ones at Cackle’s led to the bedrooms. A smooth oak door next to the fire led to the parlor, with a window overlooking the sea. It was, overall, very much up to Miss Hardbroom’s desires for a traditional witch’s cottage.

 A spitting cauldron sat on the brazier, keeping warm over coals. Hecate took an earthenware bowl out of the cupboard and ladled two spoonfuls of something into it. “Sit down,” she said tightly.

 Mildred did, taking the seat closest to the front door. Hecate put the bowl in front of her, filled with a thick rice and meat stew. “Eat.” She sat opposite her charge, her back erect in the hard chair, and began to eat without looking at her bowl. Mildred dragged her spoon through the bright red broth in silence a few times. She could feel Miss Hardbroom’s eyes boring into the top of her head, however, so she picked up a bit of rice and meat and put it into her mouth.

 The broth was tomato-based, sweet and acidic and offset by the earthy tones of spiced lamb and cabbage. The rice coated Mildred’s insides like a blanket, expanding the stomach that had been steadily shrinking throughout the week and making it cry for food. This was better than anything Miss Tapioca ever made by a long shot, and Mildred ate with consistent speed.

 “So,” Hecate drawled in strung-out words that could barely contain her self-satisfaction, “I don't need to give you an appetite potion, then?” She wanted to tack on _you wretched girl_ at the end, but decided against it. The child was on unstable footing on the best of days, and these were not the best of days.

 “No, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred closed her eyes, speaking softly. “Thank you.”

 Hecate spoke without thought to the reason for the girl’s lack of manners, and it came out harsher than she intended. “Look at me when you speak.”

 Mildred started, eyes wide. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

 “Hm.” She rose, scouring both bowls clean with a drop of potion and a flick of her wrist. Mildred took one in hand and passed it to her so that she could put it away, for the cupboards were still rather high even though Mildred was only a head shorter than her. “I suppose I should show you to your room.”

 Mildred didn't respond, only grabbed Hecate’s arm as they transferred up the winding staircase which two people could not traverse side by side. At the top of the stairs there was a tiny hallway, with two equally small bedrooms on the east side. One was decorated in pale purple and navy, with shocking pink flowers in a vase on the dresser and a brocade cover on which Artemis, Hecate’s familiar, languidly cleaned herself. Mildred was led to the other bedroom.

 The bedstead was wood, not wrought-iron like at Cackle’s. A deep cherry that matched the dresser and shutters on the window, with white sheets and an overstuffed duvet. The window gave a view of the woods, and a few books decorated the nightstand, but they were too heavy and dense for bedtime reading, one would presume. “Unless you want to sleep in the cinders by the fire, this will have to do,” Hecate said, summoning Mildred’s trunks and cat.

 “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred said quietly, eyes flicking up and then down and then up again, “If you don't mind, I’d like to rest a bit.”

 Hecate looked as if she’d swallowed a frog. It was four in the afternoon, and Mildred wanted to go to sleep. But she managed not to say anything. With a curt nod, she turned to leave. “Goodnight, Mildred Hubble.”

It was only then that the dam of composure burst, and Mildred clutched her pillow and bit back the sobs, for what felt like hours. Cried in her dreams, for the place was too unfamiliar for even dreams to make normal. Tabby’s pawing at her face didn't help very much, and the energy it took to get up and grab her Maglet to write Maud wasn't coming. She was as alone as she’d ever been.

 

* * *

 

 Hecate sat in her chair and watched the flames in the hearth, her nails digging into the armrest. _How in the name of Merlin did Mildred Hubble end up in this house? And how has she not managed to mess_ anything _up yet?_  Hecate presumed she was simply a better houseguest than she was student, for there was only one way to go on that front, and that was up.

  _Well, she did save the school...three times. And all of her scrapes are...fixable, at least. Oh, the wretched, contemptible, insolent, ignoble, lamentable, deplorable, luckless girl, stuck with_ me _of all people!_

 “What’s up, Hiccup?” said a soft, feminine voice from upon the table. She'd obviously been learning too much from her non-magical students.

 Hecate lifted up the carved silver mirror with her best attempt at a courtesy smile, given the circumstances. “Well met, Pippa.”

 Pippa Pentangle, in a pale pink dressing gown with hair loose over her shoulders, seemed completely free of distraction. Hecate was jealous of that, but not of the look of intense concern that clouded her face when she spoke. “Oh, darling, you look like a newt in acid, all pinched and shriveled and sour. What's the matter?”

 "Mildred Hubble is the matter, Pippa,” Hecate said pointedly. “Her mother has died, and she is now in my house. It was impressed upon me, as none other would take her.” Her eyes traveled down to the table once again, to find a small white lace cloth next to one of her spellbooks. “And she appears to have left her handkerchief in the kitchen instead of in her room.”

 “Well, aren’t you going to drop it off for her?”

 “It doesn't matter. I’ll dry my pillowcases in the morning.”

 “Wait, is she crying?”

 “Most likely. She hasn't destroyed my cauldron or blown up the house yet, so I can assume she's not in the best of places.”

 “Hecate...” Pippa sighed, placing her chin in her hand. Thought of how to word her response to be understood. “Mildred is far, far too proud to grieve openly, but she is a child. Just, try to make the transition as easy as possible, okay?”

Hecate started, her lips pressing into a thin line as she thought of how to respond. “I believe—”  She re-adjusted her position on one hip and sciatic pain shot down her leg, making her grimace. Her nerves had a tendency to fire in strange ways, and the loss and then gain of her magic when the Founding Stone died did not help matters. “Pardon. I don’t want to be...soft on her. It won’t be beneficial, especially when she’s so accident-prone and confused on a good day. Strong emotion allows her powers to misalign, and she needs structure.”

Pippa nodded sagely, not at all in agreement. But she knew Hecate knew that, and hated it when she stuck her oar in, so she decided not to say anything, yet. Underneath the upright posture and frowning, serpentine mouth, Hecate’s eyes were like jelly. In those eyes, in the way her hands fidgeted with a bit of loose energy, in the way her face looked when she was truly relaxed, when she didn’t fight so hard to keep every last shred of control, Pippa saw more of Mildred Hubble than she would ever let on.

“But I am—I am trying to remember how it feels. To lose a parent,” Hecate sniffed back tears, her hands balling into fists against her will.

“Good.” Pippa beamed. “You’ve got a big heart in there, Hiccup. Use it.”

“I’m using it already,” Hecate mused, taking the compliment and turning it around, deadpan, to avoid the sting of inadequacy. “It pumps blood.”

Pippa laughed, her entire face a bright burst of joy. “You know what I mean.”

Hecate relished the sound. She pressed her lips together to avoid smiling, even though Pippa’s laughter created a ball of light inside her chest, her own miniature sun to carry with her. It was common knowledge that Pippa Pentangle made every situation look brighter, but this, right here, was her personal secret. She picked up the handkerchief absentmindedly, stiff and dirty from days of use. “Give me a moment.” She fetched a bowl of water, heated it with a flick of her finger to a comfortable warmth.

“Decided to return that handkerchief after all?” Pippa smirked.

“It's something to do.”

“So you're getting fidgety.”

“No.” _Yes. And the neuralgia is bad tonight._ Hecate’s spine burned with an excess of _something_ , she didn’t know whether it was magic or energy or fluid, swelling inside her vertebrae from the very top of her head to her tailbone. Casting small household spells made it relax enough for her to sleep. Suddenly, she changed subjects. “So, how are things at Pentangle’s?” She summoned her clothes for the next day, undid her hair, and plaited it, all while Pippa chatted pleasantly about her students, and finally set herself up for the task at hand.

She cleaned the handkerchief the non-magical way, too, with soap, in the bowl of warm water. Warmth was, if not a curative, an excellent distractor. She dried the cloth with a spell once again and nodded to Pippa in farewell. “I suppose I should check on her.”

“All right, Hiccup,” Pippa said, waving. “I should be off. Have a good night.”

Mildred Hubble lay asleep on her left side, head facing the door. The salt in the remaining tears had swollen the skin of her cheeks and wetted her hair, which hung over her face in a single mass. Hecate entered with a silencing spell, for she didn’t want Mildred to be disturbed by her presence. She placed the clean handkerchief on the night table and watched the girl for a moment, as an assessment, of sorts. Mildred’s chest still shuddered with every breath, and she shook, restive, in her heavy slumber. The low growl of distant thunder was heard, and instinctively she grabbed at the pillow, to the point where Hecate wondered whether she was awake. She was not.

Without thinking, Hecate readjusted the blanket with gentle hands, leaving unsaid words heavy in the thick, rain-soaked air. “I wake with the sun, Mildred Hubble, and you are keeping me up well past my bedtime.”


	2. Nettles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hecate takes a walk, Mildred comes out of seclusion, Maud is concerned about Mildred's situation, a book is gotten, and one quite massive mistake is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My friends, remember this, that there are no weeds, and no worthless men, there are only bad farmers.” -Victor Hugo
> 
> This is in the world now, and I've looked at it too many times to have an opinion on it. I apologize in advance to any actual witches I may insult; this series takes a rather lackadaisical approach to magic, and I have done in kind by doing a half-hour's worth of research and also whatever I want with my depiction of magical ritual. All I know is that if old spellbooks are anything like old cookbooks, we're in for a ride.

And Hecate Hardbroom did not lie. 4.50am on the dot, for a walk and a think, rain or shine, every day she was able. She had a well-trodden path through the woods that she knew like her mother’s old spellbook. She’d often transfer to a point along it and wander for a little while, turning branches into chairs and back again when she needed to rest. She knew where the thickets of berries grew sweetest in summer, where invasive wintergreen and thyme clung to the snowy ground when it grew cold, perfect for healing salves. All of it was stored in her body, as much a part of her as her nose. 

Mildred had been with her two days. Two days again spent in her room, only coming down for meals. It made Hecate angry, really, but the girl’s distance made it hard for her to say anything. Her emotions instead were released wrestling with stinging nettles on the edge of her garden, and because Hecate liked her revenge best served hot, cooking and eating them. 

The air carried a bite with it this morning, the kind that stiffened joints and warmed hearts well-protected by wraps. Out here, Hecate’s solemn black riding cloak was replaced with one of deep scarlet wool lined in dove grey, just as constant transferring was supplemented by movement. The cloak was a tribute to witches past—midwives, most of them, who wore red to be seen on country roads at night. Learned, envious men killed them for using potions and incantations to take away pain, frequently dragging their non-magical colleagues onto the pyre too. They’d walked these paths the same as she did, thinking and gathering herbs to gift the next generation unto the world. That was comforting. 

Early sun filtered through the trees, drying the wet ground. It didn't squelch underneath her feet, but it was soft enough to sink a boot heel into if she tripped. Hecate was happiest here, happiest alone. The pain was better today. With a bit of sun and movement came respite, though her bones ached with fatigue. She turned back toward the cottage, her rigid movements made looser, if not easy.

She'd often thought of inviting Pippa on one of these early morning walks, of asking she come visit during one of their mirror chats, when they got done talking about students, for once. Which, of course, was made harder by the fact that Mildred Hubble was now under her care indefinitely. And Hecate’s own stilted mannerisms, for that matter. That didn't make the want any less powerful, though. 

 

* * *

 

Mildred awoke three hours after Hecate returned from her walk, bumbling downstairs in a daze. “Morning Mu—Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate sat grinding willow bark with a mortar and pestle at the kitchen table, and she began to pound only slightly harder at Mildred’s almost-Freudian-slip. “Good morning.”

“I haven't been up and about these days, I’m sorry.” Mildred said, remembering where she was and how stringent Miss Hardbroom could be when it came to being awake and productive. 

“I presume it was necessary.” Hecate got up, ladled food into a bowl from where it was keeping warm in the coals, and set it on the table with a glass of water and a cup of milky tea. Oatmeal or rice pudding, Mildred couldn't tell which. She indicated the dish with the tip of her finger, then took the pestle back in hand. “Eat.” 

Mildred ate, the gloopy mess somehow not tasting like cement. She didn't look down at her bowl, but rather watched Hecate with curiosity. 

“I must process and catalogue the ingredients I gathered this morning,” Hecate muttered, giving Mildred a sidelong glance with the implication of her inclusion in the process, however reluctant. She would be watched to make sure she didn’t burn or vaporize anything, of course. “And this week I must maintain my supplies of anti-nausea potion, calming elixir, repelling powder, and vanishing potion.” Technically, Mildred could make all of these herself. Technically _.  _ But as they were for her own very exacting use, any slip in preparation could have consequences. 

Mildred finished eating, cleaned her bowl and placed it in the cupboard. “I can help you,” she said, boldness coursing through her in a way that was quite sudden. But then it was gone. “If—if you want. Even if it's just reading the spell books out loud so you can double-check you're doing everything right.” Her hands fidgeted with the strings on her sweatshirt, her nerves palpable. 

“That won't be necessary, I have everything memorized.” Hecate swallowed her hatred of the child’s lack of self-esteem, knowing full well it was hypocritical, and managed to summon the bit of good humor she’d generated in the forest, and with Pippa last night. Her bones, her fingers, her feet were all heavy, but she found a spark of warmth that ran through her face and made it ease to neutral. “Come here, Mildred,” she called, looking down at her mortar once again and placing a new piece of willow bark inside it.

Mildred stood beside her. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom?”

“Now, I’ve seen your sorry excuse for ground tree bark, and it's part of the reason why your healing and wakefulness potions are always so... _ explosive _ . The acid isn't released in the right concentration.” She looked at Mildred with stern eyes over her shoulder and handed her the pestle. “It's high time you learned to do it properly and quickly. I shall start on the peppermint once your technique is right.”

The first attempt was as per usual, no less pitiful. Mildred was too delicate, afraid of messing up, and the bark was only warped out of shape by her circular crushing movements. The technique was right, though, Hecate noted, just not enough for it to work. 

“Mildred Hubble, I won't say this again. You need to  _ bash _ it first,” She refrained from banging her fist on the table for emphasis, as Mildred was already bracing with fear. “ _ Hard.  _ And once you have splinters the size of thorns,  _ then _ you crush. It's really quite simple.” This was  _ babies’ _ work, she realized, and it stung. She’d been doing this since she was  _ four _ , sat high on the worktop with her spindly little legs hanging off, and Mildred had never gotten the chance to learn. A cursory lesson from Maud, perhaps, but no finding the right rhythm after years of chores, no positive association with the homey scrape of pestle against mortar. Frequently, this was the only work Hecate could do outside of class, when the pain consumed her body and kept her from eating or sleeping. She took a soft sort of comfort in it, and she hoped Mildred would too.

An hour and a half later, they were left with four ounces of usable, if not sift-fine, powder in grains the size of raw sugar, and peppermint desiccated enough to hang from the ceiling. “That's good enough,” Hecate said. “I have to rest. You are dismissed to do as you will.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.”

 

* * *

 

Mildred went upstairs and took her staff in hand, smooth and electric against her palm. There was little to do to take her mind off of the stones on her chest in these hours. Little to do except read and think, if you could even call it thinking. More begging for release from the bottomless pit in which she found herself when things were even the least bit quiet. 

Enid, as a parting gift, gave Mildred a batch of protection potion in a small plastic spray bottle. Said it was for her mother, but Mildred didn't know how or why, and Enid hadn't bothered explaining. There was a set of bookshelves against the back wall in the parlor, and Mildred decided, not without much deliberation, to look for information there. 

Hecate lay by the parlor grate on a chaise longue with a lavender pillow over her eyes, for she was imbued with an unconscious, Victorian-esque flair for the dramatic that did not stop at terrifying students. Her dark curls were tied loosely with a ribbon at mid-strand, and instead of her usual heeled boots she had on an uncharacteristic pair of pink satin slippers. Mildred moved on quiet feet to the bookshelf in the corner and began perusing the leather-bound volumes, which were thick enough to make a quite sufficient doorstop, should Miss Hardbroom so desire.  _ One Hundred and One Spells for Students _ ,  _ How to Please Your Deity in 30 Days, Potions for Thought: A Spellcasting Timeline... _ She flipped quickly through all three. 

And dropped one. With a bang. Onto the floor. 

“Mildred Hubble?” came Hecate’s voice from her position against the other wall. Instead of her usual hissing clearness, this was low, croaky, and ramshackle. “You are going through my books  _ because?” _

“Oh,” Mildred jumped, inhaling and placing the volume that fell back upon the shelf. “Enid gave me some protection potion, said it was for my mum. I guess I’d like to learn...how to use it?”

Hecate readjusted the pillow on her brow with a sharp slap of beads. “ _ Invoking Your Goddess _ , bottom right corner. It lays the groundwork for death and protection rituals.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.”

“And Mildred?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom?”

“Unless you’ve lit yourself on fire, do not disturb my midmorning nap again.”

 

* * *

 

Finally Mildred picked up her Maglet after several days away, to find approximately fifty messages from Maud. The most pertinent:

_ I heard you're staying with HB. How are you faring? Is she starving you?  _

Mildred chuckled.  _ Food’s been surprisingly good, don't worry. And it's...easy. She tells me to eat, I eat. I say I want to sleep, I sleep. I don't have to think about anything or talk about anything, and she doesn't want to, anyway. She let me practice grinding tree bark this morning, and I just snuck into the library to do research while she was resting and escaped with the tiniest of telling-offs.  _

_ What? Are you serious? The woman who’s hated you for two years?  _

_ Dead serious. It's still hard, though, not having you or Enid here. All of the people I lean on are gone. _

_ We’re still here, Millie. We’re not gone. Any time, day or night. Promise. Do you want to talk about it? I know you were there when your mum passed out, and in hospital with her. That's got to be pretty rubbish.  _

Mildred inhaled sharply, her head aching up her nose and around her eyes and in a line straight to her occipital bone. She picked up her pen and wrote.  _ No. Not today. _ She couldn't do this. She picked up the book she’d gotten, its pages yellowed with age, and found the ritual Enid had told her about written longhand in bold, black ink. 

_ To protect the Dead in their eternal Rest: _

_ Take one Vial of protection Potion, freshly made, one Candle of Beeswax, five Flowers of Lavender, and five Leaves of Basil. _

_ Find a small, clear Pit in the earth large enough for you and your Candle to sit within. Sprinkle the protection Potion around you in a circle. Burn the Lavender and the Basil in alternation, and recite one line of the Incantation after each Cycle is complete.  _

 

* * *

 

The hollow Mildred found was clear, deep along Hecate’s favorite wooden path. The afternoon was windless, the air buzzing with heat around her as she lit the candle tamped inside the earth. One lavender flower and one basil leaf crumbled to ashes in the dirt.

“Brighid, Your Service I humbly request,” Mildred called out into the emptiness, her eyes closed, her right hand upon her staff, connected to the earth. One more cycle of burning was completed, and the smell of ashes and flowers filled her nose. “My Mother has been laid to perpetual Rest.” Why Brighid needed to be told that, Mildred didn’t know.

“Heavenly Priestess, aid her as You wish,” she opened her eyes, blinked back tears that weren't all from the smoke. 

“And on this mortal Earth, assuage my anguish,” came the final, watery line. Power filled her soul like water, choking her, drowning her. It flew through her right arm, to her staff, through the earth, and through her left foot, and back out. The ground vibrated as her magic, uncontrolled, filled the cracks in the earth.

Mildred sat in the silence, waiting. It wasn’t gone, the pit. But if she turned it over inside herself, it was more readily examined. But that was not a good thing. Her pain began to drown her, as if amplified. The anxiety of the hospital, the shock of the phone call, the all-consuming sadness that left her wandering in a daze for weeks. All of it came back, in screams, in shaking limbs, heavy, gut-wrenching heaves, in tear-seasoned vomit on the ground. 

“MILDRED HUBBLE!” The red cloak was like berries against the deep green of the trees, in a watery lens. Mildred didn't even know how she got there. She ran, insofar as a witch like Hecate Hardbroom could run. “Leaving the house without telling me where you're going? Have you lost your senses, you wretched girl?” 

Mildred looked up at Miss Hardbroom’s face, twisted with fury, and said in a voice that evoked thoughts of a helpless child, “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“And what did you—?” Hecate realized for herself and knelt beside her, unused to such a display and rather disturbed by the smell. Her anger melted away, and she only felt pity for the dear, dear thing, who tried so hard and needed all the help she could get. She placed a hand as soft as she could make it on Mildred’s back, and whispered in hissing tones, like a breeze, “Hush, now. Hush... The instructions in that book are vague, they assume some working knowledge and at least one aid. The sun amplifies this spell, with increased or even reversed effects on the caster. You’ll stop this sobbing in a moment.” 

She sounded so assured that, after the moment, Mildred did stop crying. Hecate lifted her up by the arm and they transferred together, under the folds of the red cloak, to home. 


	3. Balms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which several chats are had, Hecate exercises self-control, Pippa drops by for supper, and Mildred's suffering is eased in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No epigraph today - just know that the balm I refer to contains multitudes. 
> 
> This chapter is the one I've edited most heavily, and the one that happened quickest on the page. However, the chapter after this took me a week and a half to write, so I don't have as much of a backlog as I hoped. But still, Chapter 4 will be up next week, and do tell me what you think!

“Sit down in the library.” Hecate ordered, hanging the cloak on a hook and putting a cauldron of water on to boil. She didn’t regret going to find Mildred, but her body protested with every step, every lift. 

“Miss Hardbroom—?” Mildred looked around, confused and wobbly and sheet-white, before finally placing her staff against the wall. 

“I said  _ sit down _ , Mildred.” She seemed disconcerted more than angry, and with febrile energy transferred to the herb garden, painstakingly well-cared-for. “Twelve grams fresh lemon balm per 300ml of water...that’s good enough.” Her mouth hardened in anger and resolve as it dawned on her that Pippa was right. It should be easier. She hadn't been doing enough. She hadn't been helping enough. And now Mildred was sick with grief and it could have been worse because she didn't stop her when she went out to do  _ this _ .

_ It was probably more help than hurt _ , Hecate thought, but the consequences were too great for the pit of her stomach, at least. She breathed in sharply. Exhaled.

Hecate grabbed some mint leaf, too, for good measure, and strew it about the front door over her shoulder. It made the house smell nice, along with its connotations of peace. She transferred into Mildred’s bedroom and grabbed a squealing Tabby from where he was napping on her bed, then transferred to the parlor. “This should amuse you,” she said,handing the cat to her along with a witching magazine several volumes thick, then went to the kitchen again. 

12 grams of leaf per 300ml of boiling water. Stirring widdershins 50 times over steady heat, then clockwise. And repeating that for fifteen minutes. Clover honey and rosewater to taste. Strain. A pretty cup. People liked things better when they were pretty, even though Hecate saw no sense in it. A roll with rose hip jam, and a wedge of cheese, for the girl was probably hungry. A nerve pinched in the back of her neck as she took the tray in to Mildred. 

It was then that Hecate realized just how  _ small  _ Mildred Hubble was. Powerful, yes, and only a head shorter than her, but she was frail, her eyes sunken. And though she finished everything Hecate gave her over the past two days, her t-shirt hung off her, and if she’d have lifted it up one would be able to see her ribs. Though it's not like she had much weight to lose anyway, and the stress didn't help much. Never helped much. Hecate felt ill again. She managed to soften, though, just slightly, as she placed the meal on the table. She indicated the cup. “Drink this.”

“What is it?” Mildred asked, only half-interested. 

“It’s lemon balm,” Hecate said quickly. “When drunk, it's supposed to bring joy to the mourning.”

“Joy? Are you sure?” Mildred had often wondered whether Miss Hardbroom entertained a concept of joy. This, all in all, was only inducing further skepticism.

Hecate moved to the opposite side of the room, to her chaise, and sat down. Mildred’s words hit a little bit, in a place Hecate didn't realize she had. A little remnant of herself at Mildred’s age. Pippa got the idea in her head (for Hecate was quite a pensive, morbid child, though not unhappy), that she needed to smile at least once a day, and endeavored to help her do so with bright, Pippaish zeal. She’d since given it up, but it was a pleasant memory, nonetheless. She fidgeted with the watch around her neck before answering. “Yes. I’m sure it’s supposed to. I’m never sure if it works.”

Mildred took a sip of her tea, uneasy for some reason. She fidgeted, flipped through the magazine whilst not really looking at its pages, scratched Tabby behind the ears, re-tied her shoe. She then whispered, words finally in their places, “Can I talk about it?” knowing Hecate knew what she meant. “I’d say something to Maud, she's been asking all the time, but it isn't connecting with her, and I don't know why.”

The empathy came without Hecate being able to control it, and she was glad of it. “Sometimes young people do not have the emotional capacity to understand loss or comfort friends, Mildred, no matter how hard they may try.”

Mildred looked Hecate in the eye and spat her words like venom from her tongue. “It’s unfair. I sound like a child saying it, but it's so unfair. I’m already a rubbish witch who didn't grow up with magic, and now the one bit of family I had is gone and none of my friends know how it feels. I called 999. My last memory of her is in a gurney, not even something nice. My heart still stops every five minutes because I keep seeing her in my head like that. And watch it only get worse, because that's just my luck!”

Hecate placed her hands in her lap, her thin fingers spidering together. “Mildred, listen to me. It cannot, feasibly, get any worse. You  _ are  _ a child. Your mother is gone. Your friends could not take you, which is a blow in and of itself. You are in a house that is not home with me, of all people. It cannot, cannot, get any worse than this.” She straightened up with a sniff to compose herself. “Now, drink your tea. Eat. It is wise to keep your strength up.” They were words for both of them, as Hecate’s strength was rapidly waning. 

Mildred put her head in her hands for a moment before taking a piece of cheese. Red Leicester. She chuckled wetly, turning away, and let her response spill out in an honest mess. “Living with  _ you _ has been fine so far. I’ve never gone this long in the magical world without being shouted at.” She didn't even brace for a response, even though she thought she probably should, as the words were intended to wound. “Even though I’ve now done more horrible things, casting spells over break without guidance and running off without your permission. How do I even apologize for something that awful?”

Miss Hardbroom took the sting, again, and swallowed it. It wouldn't do to have two of two in this house lose their composure, and she, like it or not, was the one with thirty years more life experience and parents long-dead. “How you apologize is to  _ never _ do that again. Though, as I am Deputy Headmistress and you are under my tutelage as well as care, I believe Miss Cackle won’t have to know about it.” She went back to address the first part of Mildred’s answer, and she knew deflection wouldn't work this time. “In the same vein, it’s far easier not to shout at you when there aren’t as many rules for you to break, I daresay, though you do manage to find them and break them anyway.”

Mildred didn't hide the streak of contempt in her voice. “I don't mean to break rules! It's just, someone ticks me off—and by someone I mean Ethel, because  _ come on _ —or I lose something, or I can't find a solution to a problem, or something else happens. Esmeralda is non-magical now, Miss Cackle is always busy, you’re  _ constantly _ trying to catch me in the act of doing something horrible, and Miss Drill is...I dunno, an  _ adult _ , I guess? I feel powerless, and try to fix it, and everything flies out of control so quickly that I end up getting in trouble.”

Hecate’s answer came out far less harshly than she intended it to. But Mildred Hubble had never lied to her when it mattered, and Mildred Hubble had too many emotions for her tiny body to hold, and Mildred Hubble was a rattling combination of reckless and intelligent and righteous that made her shudder in both anger and awe. And she was also right. There's a thin line between being hard on a student you want desperately to succeed and making her suffer. And Hecate had done the latter on far too many occasions. Still, she wouldn't let a teachable moment go to waste. “Mildred, a good witch owns up to her mistakes and gets the help she needs to make it right. In this house, but at school, too, all you must do is talk to me. Before mistakes have consequences and when they can be fixed, not sniveling after the fact when I am forced to give you detention. Have I made myself clear?” 

Mildred looked slightly taken aback, but nodded all the same. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Good. And as for Ethel, I dislike the backhanded grovelers of the world, but hold academic success in the highest regard. She is, by some incredible neglect in edification, an excruciating combination of both.” Mildred gained the tiniest spark of bitter triumph, which Hecate had to fight the urge to enjoy, as it was uncalled for in many respects. “But she is our star pupil, and thus she will have certain privileges that other students are denied. You're a powerful witch, Mildred Hubble. I’d advise you to keep that power to your chest, and use it to the best of your ability in everything. Being angry, being upset, being scattered, all of it makes your magic weaker and harder to control.”  _ And lets Ethel win, _ she thought, but didn't say out loud. 

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom. I will.”

Hecate nodded. “But if there is one good thing that has come from this most dismal of situations, it is this: just by nature of being in this house you will start next term with more control. You will have the experiences all witches your age have had since babyhood. And I believe it will do wonders for you.”

The edges of Mildred’s lips quirked up in an approximation of a smile. She wished she could have both—Mum being alive and the slimmest chances of catching up in this way—but for a moment, her grief stood background to a glimmer of excitement. She got up and went to hug Miss Hardbroom, only to be stopped by a hand on her shoulder. 

“If you're thinking of embracing me, I’d advise against it.” The low, buzzing pain in Hecate’s spine came to the foreground as the air pressure outside and hormone levels in her brain both dropped in anticipation for another storm. It wasn't enough to lay down for, not this time, but it was close, and she felt it like a punch in the stomach. She rose. “Now, I am going to make an anti-nausea potion, and you are going to watch. Do fetch me a chair.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You were right, Pippa,” said Hecate from her chaise, reclining in a black velvet nightgown that evening, mirror in her hand and Artemis in her lap. 

“About what?” Pippa asked, slightly taken aback at the acknowledgement, but pleased nonetheless. 

“About Mildred Hubble. She is the continual cause of my headaches, more so than usual for reasons that are abundantly clear, but she needs an easier time of things. She slipped by me whilst I was napping to go out into the woods and cast funeral rites. They were uncontrolled and excited by the sun, and there were consequences in the form of...sick.” Hecate chewed her words, still not quite recovered from the events of the day. “We talked afterwards, about her mishaps and how to go about them, and she mentioned the late Mistress Hubble once or twice, which is good. She said she felt unwell whilst the anti-nausea potion I made was resting, so as soon as it was done, I gave her a swig and sent her to bed.”

“Well done, Hiccup,” Pippa drawled, only a slight sarcastic edge to her voice. She gave an amused huff, her right eyebrow going up in a way that was reminiscent of Hecate’s own, “Or should I say...Mum?”

Hecate gave an exasperated head-shake to which only Pippa was ever the lucky recipient, and something that was maybe a chuckle, if you listened really hard and jumped to a few conclusions. “No, you  _ shan't _ , Pipsqueak. Not now, not  _ ever _ .”

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up with a few tiny Hardbrooms poofing around the house.” 

_ “No.” _  Artemis’s ears pricked up in response to Hecate’s finality, as if she’d brought in a half-dead mouse again and wasn't sure if she was being punished. Hecate gave her a few strokes to soothe her, thinking a moment with a calm expression on her face. She then said, with the air of a person who had been deliberating on an idea for a while, “Transfer here. The mirror is...isolating.”

“Hiccup, I don't know that I can—”

At Pippa’s hesitation, Hecate made a sharp turn toward flattery. “It’s only an hour by broomstick. I’m sure you can manage, with your skill.” She got up to give Artemis a chunk of salmon for dinner, then walked back over. “I will have you back where you belong by morning,  _ and  _ you will receive the best meal I can devise with the strength I have.”

Pippa tapped her chin. “You make a tempting offer.” She gave a quick half-turn, and in a split second she was by Hecate’s side, the mirror on in an empty room. “I accept.”

 

* * *

 

 

Mildred awoke at dusk from her rest, mouth acidic and dry, her gut squirming with hunger. The room itself was quiet, but beyond the door she heard voices, as well as the clicks and pops of cooking. 

“Hecate, when we were in school you hosted seances and fortune-tellings for  _ fun! _ Disguised as an old woman! Tell me that isn't a little creepy.”  _ Miss Pentangle?  _

From Miss Hardbroom’s voice, Mildred could tell she was smiling. “I do admit, it is a bit...weird. But that was a phase, nothing more.” She meant  _ weird _ in the true sense, of course. Not just strange, but unnerving, unearthly. 

“If you say so, Miss I-Poof-Everywhere-Because-It-Looks-Scarier.”  _ Yep. Definitely Miss Pentangle.  _

“I don’t. Not here, at least. And I have a reputation to maintain. Some fear is healthy in adolescents. Makes them less...bestial.”

Mildred stifled a giggle, her first in weeks, with the edge of her teeth and padded downstairs on slippered feet, for now was as good a time as any, and her hunger wouldn't wait any longer. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Miss Pentangle called out to her. 

She sat at the kitchen table facing the door, watching Hecate heat a frying pan on a spider with bright interest that quickly fell to sympathy. “Mildred?” She pushed her chair back with the tip of her heel and opened her arms. “Come here, darling.”

Mildred was drawn to Pippa’s warmth, it easing her soul in a way that was rare and needed. The embrace was soft and long-lasting, the kiss to her cheek that followed surprisingly tender. When she was released, Pippa pulled out the chair next to them and patted it with the palm of her hand. “Sit down.” Mildred sat, and Pippa continued. “HB, whatever it is you're doing in that pan smells incredible, but...”

“Mildred will be having soup,” finished Hecate, looking over her shoulder. She noted the use of  _ HB _ instead of  _ Hecate _ or even  _ Hiccup _ , and found it rather domestic and familial when coming from Pippa’s lips, especially in relation to Mildred. That is to say, it was strange. But so very, very Pippa.

“Exactly. Wouldn't want you sick again, right?” Pippa stroked Mildred’s hair, her eyes soft. 

Mildred dismissed all concern with a wave of her hand. “Seriously, I’m fine. Don't worry, please. Everything is just a bit of a mess.” She paused, thinking of words that would make Pippa happier, “Miss Hardbroom has been taking good care of me.”

Just as hoped, the tension in the room dissipated somewhat. Hecate gave a snort of disbelief and something that was possibly amusement, if you squinted, and Pippa laughed her high, sunny laugh. “All right. Stay down here and eat with us.”

“And then return immediately to bed.” Hecate didn't have the gall to be sharp with Mildred, not with Pippa around, but their time was dear and precious and _theirs_ , and the kernel of possessiveness inside her was not happy with the arrangement. 

And so it was settled. While Hecate finished, Pippa worked on knitting a pair of fingerless mitts in silk yarn, for when someone’s joints pained her on cool nights. She muttered under her breath row counts and changes, and the project took shape in a lacy, iridescent mix of deep green, plum, and black threads. 

Mildred asked in a voice that seemed louder than it was, breaking the silence, “Couldn't you just magic that?”

“It’d be no fun then, would it?” The five needles in her hands looked like a kind of odd sea urchin, but she worked with aplomb and skill, if not ease. 

Hecate spoke, eyes quietly observant and face soft. “You’ll find, Mildred, that when faced with the decision of whether or not to use magic, Miss Pentangle’s own amusement takes more precedence than many other considerations.” But  _ God _ , did Hecate love her for it. No other person left her with monogrammed pillowcases, a chess game connected to hers so they could play throughout the day, and fresh blue orchids on her desk  _ whenever _ . She plated her and Pippa’s supper, and pointed to the pot of soup so Mildred could serve herself. “It's just Welsh Rabbit, we don't have very much in the house and—.”

“HB, it looks wonderful. Sit.” Pippa stroked her hand for a moment. Hecate recoiled slightly, retreated into herself, as if she'd touched something hot and her mind had covered itself with a fire blanket for protection. In effect, it had. But the fire blanket was instead a combination of the horrid feeling of being  _ watched _ by a  _ student _ and the anvil of fatigue and pain that came down upon her. She sat, though, and Pippa tried to ease her back out while they ate to no avail. 

Mildred excused herself as soon as she was finished. “Goodnight, Miss Hardbroom, Miss Pentangle. I’ll see you in the morning, hopefully. Thank you.”

As Mildred made her way upstairs, Pippa spoke, a trace of acid in her voice.“Something’s wrong. Don't lie to me, Hiccup. There  _ is.” _

“If you could walk me to bed, Pipsqueak, I would be very grateful.”


	4. Bedrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hecate's illness catches up to her, Mildred takes on the role of nurse with skill if not aplomb, and Maud, Pippa, and Artemis The Cat are all worried, albeit about different things. Mildred needs a very, very long hug. Toward the end, a rather large and important offer is made. Hecate Softbroom also has a moment in the sun, because maintaining your cactus spines is Too Hard™ when you're not well. It's a short one today folks, but it took me two weeks to write. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: VOMIT. Seriously. Hecate's symptoms are based on my own (the spirals of dizziness, fatigue, pain, and nausea caused by my cerebral palsy that are also common in conditions like Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Fibromyalgia), and I described my worst days the best I could. I find Hecate as a character is very much me on a bad pain day taken Up To Eleven, and I wanted to play with the idea of her being disabled in this fic. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and do let me know what you think.

Dawn came, and Mildred awoke from fitful sleep to Pippa Pentangle shaking her with such urgency that she thought there was a miniature earthquake occurring. “Mildred, darling, I have to go back to the Academy.”

    “What?” Mildred snapped out of her half-slumber. It was five in the morning, but apparently this could not wait. Artemis was screaming in the hall: the long, plaintive, whinging cries of a cat who wanted to know what had happened to her mistress.

    “I have to go back to the Academy. I have to mirror with Miss Cackle and Miss Amulet at eight, and it wouldn't do to take it from anywhere except my office.” Pippa shuddered at the thought of working in Miss Hardbroom’s parlor. She had a reputation to maintain as much as Hecate did, if not more so. “Hecate can’t leave bed, poor thing. She's worked herself too hard. I told her supper was a bad idea. Anyway, I’ve set her up with the biggest pot of tea in the universe, but you’ll have to do your best today, okay?”

    It was in this moment that Mildred began to wonder exactly where Miss Pentangle had slept the night before. “Yes.” Her answer came before thoughts of Miss Hardbroom bitter and grumpy, or too sick to move at all, shaking, like an elderly lady with the flu. Neither prospect was pleasant, but she wasn't the daughter of a nurse for nothing. She swallowed her fear. Smiled, or tried to, in her heavy, sleepy state. Found the part of her mother inside her, no matter how painful.

    Pippa made Mildred promise to check on Hecate in an hour and poofed away without another word, and she was left alone.

 

* * *

 

 

    Hecate Hardbroom would lie in bed and die of starvation before she asked Mildred Hubble to fetch her food. Or shiver until it hurt before asking for a warming spell she couldn't cast herself, Pippa’s having worn off far quicker than expected. She was preparing for both of these eventualities, her hair snarled on her pillow, any lift of her head sending waves of dizziness through her brain like bullets through jelly, when Mildred knocked upon her door. “Can I come in?”

    “Fine.”

    Mildred gave the biggest, falsest smile she could muster with her exhausted, tear-swollen face, and put a plate of toast that couldn’t be called burnt on the side table along with a small dish of marmalade and a glass of water. She couldn't help the shaking in her hands, not that Hecate was well enough to notice. “Good morning, Miss Hardbroom.” The shaking, happily, did not extend to her voice.

    Artemis followed, curling up at Hecate’s side and purring to ease the pain.

    On the opposite side of Hecate’s bed stood a dark wood screen, behind which was a small, fat armchair, a folding table, and a clothes horse. On the dresser near the door sat the teapot and cup—white with blue flowers. Even though Miss Hardbroom saw no sense in frivolities, sense be damned, they did help. Mildred spoke. “Miss Pentangle said you were ill. I thought I’d help.”

    Hecate snorted, attempting to push herself up by her hands so that she could at least look at the child while she thanked her. She made it on the first attempt, pulling a bolster from the other side of the bed to rest on. But the strength wasn't there for long, and the room appeared first very large, then very small, then very large again, like an optical illusion in an art gallery. The pain in her spine was excruciating, her lower back bearing the brunt of her load, and all of it stirred up her empty gut like a dash in a churn. “Mildred,” she managed to say, gasping her words in between swallows of bile, “in the dresser, there is a soup tureen. Get it. Quickly.”

    Before Mildred had time to think about why one would vomit into a soup tureen, or even _own_ a soup tureen, it was found, and Hecate had emptied at least a cup of yellow, phlegmy liquid into it. It was truly horrible, and Mildred went to hold her hair back, only increasing her shame. She rose with the last shred of her dignity, wiping her mouth daintily with one of the napkins on her plate. “Thank you.”

    “I was sick, you were sick, we’re even.” Mildred covered the tureen to keep the smell out and placed it on the floor within striking distance, in case there was another sudden onset of nausea. “Would you, um, like to eat something?”

    Hecate stared at her blankly for a moment before nodding. “Yes. Yes. Milk in my tea, and the toast must be plain and cold.”

    “It is both of those things.” She put the plate beside Miss Hardbroom’s hip. “I was a Girl Guide, and the one thing I can do properly over a fire is make toast.”

    Hecate didn't respond, just cut it into quarter triangles and ate them as they were, taking periodic sips of her tea as she went. The caffeine seemed to help a bit. Her eyes got less sunken, her face less tense. She was still horribly pale, moving with care so as to avoid disturbing the parts of her that hurt, but she gained a bit of strength, which eased Mildred’s frayed nerves.

    Mildred noticed Miss Hardbroom fussing with her hair, running her fingers through its snarled ends as if having it by her neck in such a state was absolutely revolting. “I can comb it for you, if you want. Get it out of your way,” she said, a bit shocked with herself, but glad she suggested it if it would help.

    Hecate turned her head delicately, like it was a full mug attached to her spine that she needed to avoid spilling, and swallowed before speaking. Her voice was small, rather unlike herself. “Um, all right.” She showed little gratefulness in her face, even though it was there. Mildred tried to sense it nonetheless, to no avail.

    “You’re going to need to move so you're sitting with your legs off the bed, or to a chair, so whenever you want to do that works for me. Now, in an hour, next week...”

    Under the broadest of parameters it barely passed for a joke. But for one tiny second it silenced Hecate’s six-part choir of internal screaming. Her overstimulated, jaded brain rewarded the aid with as much of a smile as it could manage under the circumstances. “In fifteen minutes, shall we say?”

    It was a small smile, and could easily pass as a resting face if Hecate’s current one wasn't so scrunched with pain. But it made Mildred feel the effects of her assistance, and a warmth came to ease some of the tiredness in her bones. She responded, her chipper demeanor much less false now, “Sure. Your usual knot seems kind of uncomfortable, and I couldn't do it very well anyway, so do you just want, um, a French plait down the side? Those are tidy and easy to sleep in.”

    “That's fine. Find the anti-nausea potion I made yesterday and the analgesic, the scarlet one, and bring them to me. I don't like to take them on an empty stomach.”

    Mildred put her hand to her forehead in a salute. “Aye, aye.” If it made Miss Hardbroom smile again, well, that was a bonus.

    She did not.

 

* * *

 

 

    The potions were fetched and taken, and Hecate had the use of the armchair behind the screen (in actuality a well-concealed commode, for she had to be prepared for all possibilities). After some readjustment of cushions on the fat little seat, she found herself ready. Mildred had found a wide-tooth comb, bristle brush, and a small box of elastics and pins in the downstairs bathroom, and they sat beside her on a small table.

    Upon taking Hecate’s hair in hand in order to detangle it, Mildred scraped her knuckles on the line in between her shoulder blades. It didn't hurt, not really, but Hecate flinched nonetheless. The pain was in her skin, in her blood, and any other sense was excess. Mildred—careless, big-hearted girl—rubbed her shoulder by way of apology, prompting another cringe away.

    “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

    “Sorry! Sorry! I’m not hurting you, am I?”

    _There is nothing that isn't pain, or the prospect of pain._ “No,” Hecate began to regulate her breathing. “I was...startled.”

    “Okay. I’ll start from the bottom so it pulls less.” There was a natural wave to Hecate’s thick, dark hair that ordinarily would have made it a bit harder to work with, but it was so glossy and well-cared-for that it barely made a difference. She remembered her mother’s hair, different as night and day from the locks the comb cut through now. She never really took much care with it, throwing it up into a bun on work days and leaving it loose all else, but she had Mildred do it for parties and such with long, dexterous fingers, and they would chat, oftentimes figuring out a new style together. Mildred blinked back the tears pricking at her tired eyes as she took a section near Hecate’s part and began to braid, adding in hair as she went.

    Hecate pretended not to notice when Mildred braced herself against the chair for a moment, pushing back sobs. She braided to the nape of Hecate’s neck, her hair falling gracefully to one side, and then finished so it could be placed easily over one shoulder.

    It was because Mildred was so tired, really, that the emotional discombobulation seemed to be worse. She found she needed to excuse herself after guiding Miss Hardbroom back to bed. She turned to leave without a word, but couldn't escape before Miss Hardbroom spoke. “I must rest now, and you should as well.” _You look exhausted,_ she wanted to say. _I can take care of myself._ But the words didn't leave her mouth because the first were unhelpful, and the last were lies.

    Mildred had a sudden and powerful desire to embrace Miss Hardbroom, to sit by her on the bed talking, to take her hand and make sure she was truly all right, to comfort and be comforted in return. It was absolutely repulsive upon examination, but it was there.

 

* * *

 

    Mildred returned to her room to find a message from Maud.

    _How’s your day? Mum says I can come have tea with you and HB, if you want. If she’ll let you. If you even have tea-tea, and not something else, like porridge with water. That sounds awful, honestly. I don't know, Millie. I just miss you and I’m worried, all right?_

    Mildred felt her friend’s sincerity, and wrote back in kind. _HB isn't well today, so I definitely can't ask her for anything. Can you give me a few days? I tried to cast the funeral rites for Mum yesterday morning. It didn't work, and everything is horrible, okay?_

_You WHAT?  Oh, Merlin... Those are supposed to be done at night! I’m surprised you weren't hurt, much more that HB didn't bite your head off! How are you alive?_

_I don't know._ Mildred often thought she shouldn't be, these days. She wrote, unsure whether she was telling the truth but hating Maud’s reaction, the reaction that gave Miss Hardbroom far too little credit, _She was...kind. She is kind. And I was sick. That helps._

    That didn’t seem to placate Maud, but Mildred left her without a response once again, and put her head to pillow. What an unfortunate time for the insomnia to set in in full force, after the twelve hours of sleep she got last night that felt more like four. Tabby curled up by her side, and she stared at the ceiling, the stones on her chest again. Everything was simply waterlogged, overwhelming, exhausting. Maybe when she and Miss Hardbroom reconvened, they’d both be in better moods, or at least moods more like themselves. But Mildred didn’t count on it, not at all.

    Mildred did fall asleep, at some point. There was little else to do. She dreamt of a cold whiteness that shut her out, that blocked her from her mother, accompanied by incessant steady beeping and the unexpected appearance of a soup tureen. She was awoken by her own strangled cry, sweat soaking the pillow so deeply that it almost didn’t feel wet, and Artemis slapping her face. The cat patted her nose with its front paw as if to make sure she was conscious and gave a babyish meow in greeting before moving to sit at her feet, much to Tabby’s chagrin.

    “Mildred,” Hecate said from the doorway, somehow having managed, with the pain medicine, to get up and check on her. “May I sit with you a moment?”

    Mildred got over her shock enough to nod.

    With permission granted, Hecate walked to the edge of the bed and sat down gingerly, one hand behind her to keep her stable. She sighed. “We make quite the pair.”

    Mildred nodded again. “We do.” _And?_

    Draining silence. The room seemed devoid of air. Hecate’s mouth tightened in pain again. Mildred hadn't shaken the mental disorganization, and it felt like no amount of sleep could do so. Nothing was where it should be, and it's quite difficult to organize your own mind when your reference point has been ripped away from you. But there was something in Hecate’s face as the spike subsided, lucid but soft with drugs, that let Mildred know things could return to normal, somehow. _Must_ return to normal.

    Hecate cleared her throat. “I thought...when you're ready, of course...that we could perform your mother’s funeral rites again. Together.” She smirked, her voice chilling, and Mildred saw a glimpse of the old Potions mistress who gave Maud detention with captious glee. “At night, like one is supposed to.”

    Mildred had two competing impulses: one to shout with joy, the other to shrink away in terror and shame at her mistakes. They resolved themselves the only way such things could—in laughter. This was the intended effect, and though it was rather awkward, it brought life back into the house and into her.

    Hecate set her jaw, but couldn't hide the twinkle of mischief in her eyes as she attempted her old glare. “Do you mean to accept my offer?” she hissed.

    Mildred took a deep breath. “Of course, Miss Hardbroom. Thank you.”

    Hecate rose, her slippers scuffling unscarily on the floor as she made her way back to the doorway. She fidgeted with the watch around her neck, sniffing. “Miss Pentangle has sent us lunch. It is in my bedroom if you wish to take advantage.”


	5. Bonfires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mildred completes her first funereal ritual, Hecate makes her first mom-decisions, the Ice Queen begins to like being a little bit melty, and a tea is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEW CHAPTER!!! This one was the bane of my existence for about a week and a half, but I'm pretty proud of it. And just an FYI, I'm going to be abroad and away from my laptop for a few weeks, so the next chapter will either come out this Sunday (8th July) or the week of July 23rd. Anyway, I hope you like it, and do let me know what you think!!!

As the sun went down one evening a week or so later, the air grew cold, and Miss Hardbroom said that then was as good a time as any to honor Julie Hubble and guarantee her continued protection and happiness in the afterlife. Miss Hardbroom was still a bit ill, though far better, and had been able to resume potion-making, housekeeping, and tutelage with Mildred’s help after a day in bed. She was still rather miffed at the fact that Mildred needed to assist her far more than usual, taking on the manual labor of cleaning the meticulously tidy cottage and collecting ingredients while Hecate sat by the fire, supervising her work, cooking, and making plant-growing potions, both for amusement and because she could not attend to the garden.

Mildred found herself constantly learning more about plants, potions, and witching culture of necessity, just as her teacher had hoped. In the morning, Miss Hardbroom would compile a list of the plants needed, brief instructions about how to recognize them, and whether they were in the forest or the garden. Often, on her first time out, Mildred would return with an incorrect plant or quantity, or come rushing back inside with a question, red in the face with the effort. It took much of Hecate’s remaining strength not to snap at the frazzled, inexperienced girl, but after being sent away posthaste with clearer instructions and what _not_ to do for a second, or third, or fourth go, Mildred would always return with the required materials. And Hecate, no matter how much she hated to admit it and no matter how long it took, did appreciate the help.

On the night in question, Mildred helped Miss Hardbroom downstairs and into the large brocade chair, and she was wrapped in as many blankets as Mildred could get on her without being shouted at. That is to say, five, including a black velvet capelet that Miss Pentangle got her as a Christmas gift. Though it was a ritual customarily done alone, one witness if not more were also customarily invited. This time differed in two ways: as Mildred was so young and inexperienced, Miss Hardbroom thought it best to guide her in this endeavor, and Miss Pentangle and Miss Cackle, the chosen guests, both expressed regret at being unable to attend.

They transferred to a stone-lined pit on the coast by the house, the sea high and spraying their faces with salt. A spark was created at the end of Miss Hardbroom’s finger and flicked at the pit, setting the damp wood alight in a burst of fire that didn't do much, with the wind, to warm them.

“Mildred,” Miss Hardbroom called, bringing the girl to attention at her side, “The candle-and-herb ritual is good for a student of your age whose powers are controlled or weak. Yours, however, are neither of those things, so the bonfire and your staff will work in conjunction to control your magic. Brighid is also a healing goddess—I find patrons of necromancy to be far more helpful. Thus, we will be invoking my own patron goddess, the goddess Hekate.”

Mildred nodded in understanding, and Miss Hardbroom continued, summoning bundles of bay leaves, a container of myrrh, honey, mulberries, and light cakes, along with a bundle of twigs and a stone bowl large enough for Mildred to stand in, if she wanted to. “Place your offerings on the cold stone there, away from the flame. That is, the cake, honey, and fruit. Do not let them catch fire.”

Mildred did as she was told, her hands surprisingly steady, and returned to lift up the bowl. “Where does this go?”

“Next to the food.”

With great effort, Mildred moved the bowl to its location, setting it down with a hard _thunk._

Miss Hardbroom looked entirely non-threatening wrapped up like a kitten, but her voice had not lost its edge.“Take the myrrh and bay leaves and place them into the bowl. Sit down, girl _._ Do you _want_ to make a crucial error on one of the most important nights of your young life?”

“No.” And Mildred sat, though the sand was cold and damp through her jeans.

“Take a twig from the bundle, and get a bit of fire, as you would a candle. Place it in the bowl so the myrrh and bay leaves are set alight.” Hecate watched like a hawk as Mildred did so, ready with one hand out to extinguish the flame if the twig were to be dropped.

It was not, however, and the smell of burning myrrh filled the air. Mildred settled back onto her heels, watching the flame in the bowl as if hypnotized.

“Now, you must focus,” Miss Hardbroom began. “Close your eyes and count your breaths, or watch the flame, like you're doing now. Do not look away, just listen to the sound of my voice. The offerings will invoke Hekate, and then once you feel her presence, you will make your argument for the protection of your mother in the Underworld.”

Mildred snapped her head to look at her teacher, her eyes like saucers and half-full of tears. “I have to make an _argument?_ An _essay? Now?”_

Miss Hardbroom grit her teeth to stop the wild combination of exasperation and sympathy she felt from choking her, a set of emotions that was all too common these days. _“_ Not an essay, _girl._ An _argument_. Pathos, ethos, logos. Emotion, character, reason. As long or short as you like.” She sighed and closed her eyes, placing her hands on her blanketed lap palms-up, fighting the urge to ball them into fists. “Now, let's get on with it.”

Mildred inhaled sharply and once again turned her attention to the light. She softened her gaze, and in a moment an electricity found her fingertips, as if holding her hand. Mildred began to speak, though there was no certainty in her mind, only faith, which is in itself the absence of certainty. “My mum died really suddenly. No one knew that there was something wrong. She wasn't prepared. She wasn't ready. I’m not ready to have her gone.”

It was then that Miss Hardbroom, eyes closed, listening, began her own private prayer. _This child is not mine. She never will be mine. But she is under my care, and thus under yours, Hekate._

“So, if she's in your afterlife, and not some other afterlife, or none at all, please keep her safe. I hope she's happy where she is. I’m new to witching, but I’m putting as much faith in you as I can, okay?”

Miss Hardbroom chuckled under her breath. _Such childish words. But well-chosen ones. She's intelligent. Does that please you enough to honor my request as well?_

Mildred shut her eyes tight as spray hit her face again, masking the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. She gripped the electricity tighter in her fists, shaking and soothed by the spirit. Her next words came out tight, bitter, honest. Even if none of this was real, it still mattered. “I need to know she's all right. So...”

_Please, oh great Hekate, my namesake, my patron, my love..._

“Protect my mother, who has passed on.” Mildred swallowed salt water in the back of her throat. “For her sake and mine.”

_Give Mildred Hubble peace._

“Allow her to be happy.”

_Let her rest._

“I love her.”

_A witch like her does not deserve to suffer._

“Please,”

_Please._

“Please—”

And Hekate was gone. A gust of wind blew hard from the sea and took the fires with it. Mildred blinked her eyes open once again, her body a windblown husk as she turned her head to speak. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” Miss Hardbroom said sagely. “Her spirit has left us. She can honor our pleas or not.” And suddenly, in the presence of the Gods and the clouds and the ashes, the bittersweetness of the night mingled with pride at the work of her student. Filled her up as if with warm air, to bursting, until she felt quite lofty indeed.

Mildred shook, her body aching under the weight of her breaths. She watched some cinders get picked up by the wind, distracted by the chattering of her teeth and the tears cooling to ice on her cheeks. She suddenly felt wide awake and riddled with the kind of anxiety that threatened to stop her breathing. She took in heavy, gasping lungfuls of air, but they hurt, like knives against her chest, and she couldn't help but cry out, small, in the dark.

Miss Hardbroom heard the cry with bats’-ears, though it was little more than a whisper, and purely for logical, health-related reasons that had nothing to do with the wet pang she felt behind her eyes, decided they should return inside.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a gap in Mildred’s memory, and when her shivering subsided she found herself on a hassock by Miss Hardbroom’s feet, wrapped in one of the many blankets to hand as the blaze on the hearth sent sharp heat into her bones. She sighed. “It's done now. Don't know how well, but it's done now.”

The mantelpiece glowed, the light illuminating jars of sleeping powders and translucent forest honey. Hecate was warm for the first time in recent memory. The wrinkles in her forehead and between her eyes smoothed out, her jaw relaxed, her hair felt less tight. Maybe it was because Mildred couldn't see her. She clicked her tongue, scrunching her face again in an attempt at a criticism that was entirely unsuccessful. “If you’d used your staff _as I instructed_ , you might have had more time, but you got her attention and made a good argument. All in all, it was not unsatisfactory.” In a rare and quiet display of affection, Hecate’s hand found her shoulder. “Congratulations, Mildred.”

But when Mildred relaxed under the touch and turned to look at her with bright eyes, the urge to stiffen was beaten out by the sleepier, warmer thing in an internal grudge-match for the ages. It was like the cushy marled socks Pippa knitted Ada for Yule, or, if we were being less sentimental, a metal bed-heater one fills with hot stones. Mildred saw that low twinkle in her eyes, the barely-there smile, and lifted her gaze to Hecate’s lowered one, so they were face-to-face. And she grinned, that giant Mildred grin that shot a firecracker through the iciest of souls, and that Hecate had thought she might never see again. “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom.”

“You're welcome.” Hecate rose and walked to the cupboard with easy, measured steps, fetching a white paper bag and filling a pot with water. She stopped short before she reached the hearth, looking at the water as if a recent thought had disgusted her before saying, “I suppose if I give you tea at nine in the evening, you’ll never sleep.”

It wasn't really a question, but Mildred answered it like it was anyway, not knowing whether or not she’d be faced with a glare. “But I wouldn't mind hot chocolate. No caffeine.”

“A suitable compromise,” Hecate said, and poured the water onto the herbs on the windowsill and replaced it with milk.

Mildred shook her head in disbelief that a frivolous request of hers was being honored by _Miss Hardbroom_ without complaint. “I didn't even know you liked chocolate.”

“Only when liquid,” came the reply, as Hecate took said chocolate—a hard, gritty lump that looked more like a rock than anything else—and broke a bit off into the pot. “Eating it is not a practice I enjoy. I dislike the texture, though I do purchase a box of truffles as a birthday gift for Miss Cackle every year.” To be quite honest, Hecate didn't much like eating at all, though cooking was a pleasure. Drinking chocolate with an egg yolk and a (healthy) splash of sherry mixed in for substance was her pet form of nourishment for long marking sessions, bad pain days, or when Beatrice Bunch, Enid Nightshade, and Mildred _all_ had detention, occurrences she hoped would be less common in the coming year. For all of her scrapes, Mildred had talent, and tonight was the apogee thus far of her learning to control it. Hecate picked up a fork with her long fingers and began to whip the egg in the bottom of her mug, conveniently leaving the sherry _out_ this time.

Mildred swallowed, the taste in her mouth inexplicably bitter as she remembered Maud’s invitation. “That's nice. I’d like to get Miss Cackle a birthday present next year—she's been kind to me. By the way, can Maud come over sometime?”

Hecate returned the now egg-enriched chocolate to the fire to thicken, strainer in hand. Her jaw worked. It was a question she had never been faced with before. To be quite honest, it sounded horrible. But Maud Spellbody wasn't a _cruel_ or _dangerous_ or _impolite_ child, so there wasn't any _harm_ in it. Well, Mildred’s propensity for disaster did increase exponentially with the amount of friends she was permitted to have, but that was possibly a statistical error attributed to the hedonistic and roguish nature of Enid Nightshade. Finally, after a moment that felt long enough for the universe to die and be reborn, Hecate answered. “All right.”

Mildred was struck dumb for the second time that night. “Um, _what?”_

Hecate clicked her tongue. “I said, ‘all right’.” She walked over, placing the mugs on the side table. “Drink your chocolate.”

“Seriously? Are you sure?”

If there was one thing Hecate disliked, it was being questioned in a decision, and she straightened up in her chair in indignation. In a voice that made Mildred remember once again that she was a teacher, and hers at that, she answered, “Did I hand you that mug, or did I hand you a spade with which to dig yourself into a hole? I’m absolutely certain.”

Mildred took the hint to stop talking. She paused to taste the thick, warm liquid. It was slightly bitter, with fruity, earthy notes on the tongue. So intense, she thought, as to be overwhelming, but it never quite was. She could see why Miss Hardbroom liked it this way. It was her, distilled down and made sippable.

Pleased with an end to that, Hecate continued. “If you’d like to contact Miss Spellbody, tomorrow would be suitable. Misses Cackle and Pentangle will also be joining us for tea at four. They regret not being able to attend tonight, and in the wake of my...episode, insist on visiting.”

Mildred put down her cup. “That’s the bats, Miss Hardbroom. Thanks.”

Hecate pursed her lips. “Well, they did insist.” Her hand found the watch around her neck again, and she looked at Mildred without really seeing her at all. “And to keep you from your friends, no matter how I feel about them or what trouble in which you may find yourselves, borders on cruelty.”

Mildred, not really sure what to say, let Miss Hardbroom’s words sink in until they found a place inside her where they didn’t have to be addressed, and Miss Hardbroom didn’t seem to want them to be. She watched as she sank back into her chair, cup in hand, and crossed her legs. Somehow, sitting down like that, she looked smaller, though Mildred still had to look up to speak to her from the vantage point of the hassock. She answered, recalling the bit of praise she received earlier and using it to fuel her words, “It’ll be nice to see them all again, at least. I miss Maud.”

Miss Hardbroom summoned Mildred’s maglet onto the table. “Write to her, then. There’s no use in putting it off.”

Mildred picked up the maglet and went to check her messages, picking _Maud Spellbody_ out of the list immediately, as there were, once again, three new messages for her to open. Mildred indicated the most recent one with a satisfying _tap_ , but in a moment the smile faded from her face. She paled, swallowing the lump in her throat as the most Ordinary of expressions escaped her lips. “Oh, God.”  



	6. Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cliffhanger is resolved, a bump in the road is weathered, the evening continues, and a pleasant time is had by, well, most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, it's a month later and this chapter is still not done and going to be about fifteen pages long, so I'm splitting it in two. Here are the first six pages, which are basically three pages of whump and three pages of the sugariest fluff I could write. It's also very much the "explaining the French sewer system" chapter, fuck all to do with the main plot. Including: homophobia as PG as I could reasonably make it, Hecate Hardbroom with her hair down, sleep-deprived storytelling, and a minor Cinderella transformation that mostly comes down to Mildred not being blinded by fear. Enjoy!

Hecate couldn’t help the fear that coursed through her as she saw her charge, earlier having completed one of the most important rituals in witch theology for the first time, white as a sheet and with her hand over her mouth so as not to let the gasp escape. She pressed her lips into a thin line, digging her nails into the armrest to stop the slight tremor in her hands. “Is everything all right with regards to Miss Spellbody?” she hissed, so as to indicate callousness rather than anxiety.

Mildred inhaled sharply and shook her head, just realizing that she had been spoken to. “It’s not Maud. It’s Flic--Felicity Foxglove.”

“Well, what is so the matter with Miss Foxglove that she couldn’t tell you herself?”

Mildred paused in preparation to explain, not sure whether she should leave the details out. “She messaged Maud this afternoon saying she was going to tell her parents something...important. She was afraid they’d be angry, and now she’s not answering her maglet. Maud tried the mirror in her room too, seven times, and she kept getting declined.”

Hecate set her jaw, her right palm pressed over her watch as if to keep her heart from pounding out of her chest. She swallowed, thoughts of the night Pippa brought up a crush at the dinner table with beatific, childish innocence flashing through her mind. Thoughts of Felicity Foxglove herself, and the reverence in the young girl’s voice whenever Pippa became the topic of conversation. And thoughts of how those two things, possibly, connected. “And what was this _thing?”_

Mildred’s face scrunched up, questioning, and it was exactly as Hecate had feared. “I don’t know if you have a word for it here. Witches who love other witches. In the non-magical world they say you’re ‘lesbian’, or ‘bisexual’, if you like men too. And, um, that’s what she is. One of those things. She’s not sure yet.”

Hecate grimaced, her throat tightening. Her voice came out higher than usual. “No, the word is the same.”

“It’s just, her parents are Old Order, conservative, and--”

“I’m aware. I remember her mother.” Hecate waved a hand, turning her face away from Mildred’s in an attempt to regain her ability to breathe. Fenella Foxglove was the kind of girl Pippa would meet with a fake smile and a protective arm around Hecate’s skinny shoulders, for she had it out for anyone who was anything less than painfully normal. Hecate, no matter how much her devotion to the craft indicated otherwise, was anything but. She smiled wryly to herself, at the irony of it all. _I bet she regrets not sending Felicity to Pentangle’s now..._

Hecate sighed as she looked back at Mildred, picking up the tarnished silver hand-mirror from the side table and handing it to her. “Try to contact Miss Foxglove from here.” She swallowed a gulp of air before adding, with a surprising lack of foresight, “Ask her if she wants to leave. If she does, I can summon her here for the night and we can decide what to do tomorrow.”

Some of the color came back into Mildred’s face. The tight muscles in her back relaxed. “Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” she said, relieved.

Hecate clicked her tongue, determined not to give anyone the mistaken impression she’d gone soft. “And afterwards, you are to go to bed. Are we clear?”

Mildred nodded. But then the mirror began to shake slightly in her hand, and over the course of about thirty seconds she began to look ever so slightly petrified, like a flower hit by an early frost. She looked up at Miss Hardbroom in the red brocade armchair with puffy, dark eyes, and in the smallest and shakiest of voices, said, “Her parents might answer. I can’t get her out of there if they answer, not if the mirror shows your name.”

“Mildred,” Hecate answered with the kind of tight-lipped sternness mothers used when coaxing failed, only, in true Hardbroom fashion, there was no coaxing to precede it. “You are being very foolish. If Miss Foxglove _does_ answer, she’d rather you than me.”

Hecate watched Mildred rise from her hassock (because yes, it was _hers_ now) and climb the stairs, her feet heavy, her frame lanky and skinny and folded in on itself. She had a sudden desire to transfer over and give the girl’s hand a squeeze in reassurance as it moved softly up the banister, but she didn't act on it. It was an urge that came from the part of her that was still thirteen, no matter how deeply buried.

 

* * *

 

 

Felicity Foxglove was more than a little bit frightened when she saw _Hecate Hardbroom_ flash purple on the mirror in her bedroom at nine-thirty at night. She sat on her bed, opposite the mirror, not thinking of much at all. She had not changed for sleep, for sleep seemed trivial now. She entertained the possibility that the Deputy Head had caught wind of recent events, and was calling to talk to her in that hissing, sharp voice that was so much worse than shouting about how _unnatural_ she was and the disgrace she’d brought her family and the witching community as a whole, and to expel her from school. Well, at least her isolation would be complete then, as it should be.

She answered the mirror anyway, face toward her feet, as there had been so much bitterness directed at her already that a little bit more didn’t make much of a difference. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom?”

Mildred couldn’t contain a whoop of excitement at seeing her friend’s face. “Flic!”

“Mildred!” Felicity giggled in surprise before remembering the events that led to these circumstances. Her face clouded over. “I’m...I’m sorry about your mom.”

Mildred propped the mirror on a stack of books and looked at her hands sheepishly for a moment. “Thanks. We performed the witching death rituals tonight. The real ones. It was painful, but I’m all right. Are _you_ all right? Maud said--”

“I’m fine, Mil.” There was a hint of defiance in Felicity’s tone. “I’m being who I am, aren’t I?.”

“Have your parents said anything?”

“They think I’m embarrassing myself and inviting their friends, neighbors, whatever, to say bad things about us. They always knew I was...odd, but they never really wanted to know why, you know? They say they won’t judge me, but they're so concerned about everyone else that they don't want to support me either.” Felicity spat her answer in a distinctly un-Felicitylike manner, tears welling up in her eyes once more.

Mildred swallowed the lump in her throat, looking down at her hands again. “Miss Hardbroom says you can stay here for the night, if you want to get out of there. Maud and Miss Pentangle and Miss Cackle are coming over tomorrow. We could talk about it then.”

Felicity let out a bitter, sarcastic huff. “Miss Pentangle, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be swell to see her, won’t it? Considering she got me into this mess?” She softened for a moment, admitting, “Well, partially.”

“I don’t even think she knows you have a crush on her,” Mildred lied, badly.

“Of course she does. I was so _obvious._ It’s _gross.”_

“It’s not gross, Flic. It’s who you are. And who you are is never gross.” Mildred wasn’t sure of her words, but they sounded true when she said them. She smiled. “Pack a bag, we can have you here in five minutes flat.”

Felicity smiled too, albeit wanly. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Felicity Foxglove was equally frightened when she was whisked away on a spinning vortex of air, a duffel in hand, to materialize in Miss Hardbroom’s kitchen. But the fear was, once again, quickly consumed by astonishment. Miss Hardbroom sat by the fire in her black velvet dressing gown, Artemis in her lap, the stress of the evening having caused her to undo her tight, braided bun into a thick mass of waves that softened the angles of her face. And oh my giddy bats, did she look pretty.

The duffel thumped to the ground, and Artemis jumped off of the red brocade armchair to welcome the new guest. That is, to sit at a point from which the light bounced off her fur in just the right way, and give two slow blinks of her emerald-green eyes. Miss Hardbroom rose with her, bowing slightly. “Well met, Felicity.”

Felicity bowed in return. It was only as she straightened up that she realized Miss Hardbroom’s eyes were dewy, and her stiff expression had lost some of its sharpness. Artemis walked back over to her mistress’s side, and Miss Hardbroom spoke again. “Is there anything you require?”

“No, Miss Hardbroom.” Felicity shook her head, then added, “Thank you for letting me stay.”

Hecate flashed the tiniest of smiles. Comfort never came naturally to her, and neither did making people feel welcome, but if Mildred had taught her anything in the past two weeks or so, it was that effort with regards to these matters was at least not harmful. Before Felicity had time to ponder whether or not she’d been slipped a personality-changing potion again, she turned around and replied, “You're welcome. I am unable to offer you more than the floor, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right.”

They transferred up to the guest room, where Mildred sat on the bed, having lain in wait for several minutes. The _entire_ linen-closet appeared to be on the floor by Mildred’s bed, pillows and blankets and duvets piled haphazardly every which way. “Mildred Hubble,” Hecate said, hissing the H just as she did in school, “When I said to get linens for our guest, I did _not_ mean to get _every_ linen. In the morning, everything except two pillows and two blankets must be _gone_. Are we clear?”

Mildred nodded, shooting Felicity a smile. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Well, here is Miss Foxglove, apparently with all her limbs. I shouldn't be hearing any _girls_ after eleven.” And Hecate retired to her room, curling up with a book knowing full well she was going to be disobeyed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, so, Mildred, there is a very important matter we need to discuss: HB has her hair down! And she _smiled_ at me!” Felicity sat cross-legged on Mildred’s bed, taking a swig of water in the interim between conversations as they chatted in the dark.

“She’s different in her own house. She's ill a fair bit of the time either way, but she’s more relaxed here. Still, I could have gotten more sympathy out of a toad for the first few days,” Mildred replied with a nonchalance that struck Felicity as odd.

“She’s so pretty! It’s so weird! I could have sworn you’d put a personality-changing potion on her again.”

Mildred put up a hand, turning her head to the side in confusion. “Sorry...again? Was I not there that day?”

“Wait,” Felicity giggled, “You hadn't heard? _I hadn't told you?”_

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Felicity threw her head back in amusement, and her giggling changed into a full-blown cackle. “Mildred, you are in for a _treat.”_

Mildred nodded earnestly, and Felicity repositioned herself on the bed in order to tell the story more effectively. “So, you remember that day Miss Cackle was gone? No one really knows where and it's all mysterious and spooky?”

“Oh, yeah, she was called for a hearing before the Magic Council. I was there. Maud, Enid and I snuck out and went as witnesses.”

Felicity’s jaw dropped. “No. Freaking. Way. See, this is why you're my friend. Tell me all about that. Was the Great Wizard actually interrogating her?”

“No. You said you’d talk first. You're not getting out of it that easy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Where was I? Oh, yeah. We had an inspection, and HB was off-the-rails, remember? So, during freshman potions, teeny tiny Beatrice Bunch put a personality changing spell on her.” Mildred watched her smile grow wider and wider, until it looked like her face might crack. “It was _bonkers_. Ethel had to lead the inspector on a wild goose chase while we got her back to normal. We went to the potions lab after class and I asked about you guys just, disappearing—” She fell back, her laughter enough to shake the bed, “And Miss Hardbroom said ‘three less to teach, then!’ and walked out!”

Mildred’s eyes were giant. She shook her head, disbelieving, but happy that Flic was laughing. “No, no. You're _not_ serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” Felicity put one hand by her mouth, stage whispering, “She was walking around with a rose in her mouth and salsa dancing in the hallway. Miss Drill had to football tackle her for some reason. The level of bonkers, I can’t describe, Mildred. It didn't even warrant a blog post, it was that surreal.”

Mildred collapsed into giggles along with her, all self-control having left for the night.

It had long passed eleven, and Hecate lay with her book, head pressed against the shared wall of their bedrooms, listening to the peals of uncontrolled mirth at her expense. The iron rod in her soul straightened up, offended at the idea that such a blatant violation of her magical autonomy had become a joke, and for good reason. But she didn't have the heart to go in and shout at them, mirth of her own playing at her lips, and they would soon tire themselves out at the rate they were going. Pippa would say that if having her hair down gave them something to laugh at, then she should do it more often, but there was a niggling part of Hecate’s mind that didn’t think it should go that far, even if she was probably right. Hecate shrugged, giving the headboard a solitary _bang_ with the side of her fist and a bark of “BED!” in a half-hearted attempt to quiet them that only started them up anew. She sighed. _If they want to laugh through all of this, then I might as well let them._

* * *

 

 

Hecate woke with the sun the next morning, for the first time since she fell ill, even though no one in that house had gone to sleep until 1 a.m.. She rose on increasingly steady legs to dress, putting her hair in a slightly looser chignon than normal, still not giving up its place at the crown of her head. She would have found the hair scrunched messily by her ears irritating on any other day, but she was too tired to be bothered with slicking everything back, and her scalp already ached with the thought. She took a plain black blouse and skirt from the wardrobe, buttoning the former so that the open collar showed a triangle of skin at the throat. Not nearly as goth as she was used to, but tidy. Ada would say it was elegant, Hecate knew, and everything could go arse-up as long as the headmistress gave her approval.

She went downstairs, finding her feet and starting some kindling in the fire. Sitting in her chair, trying to shake the weight of sleeplessness from her mind, she meditated on menus and table linens. It was all horribly extravagant, really, when a cuppa and maybe a biscuit from the shop down the road was sufficient for any regular person, but Hecate would feel exposed and raw, like a scratch under hot water. She finally decided on plain white linen and her red earthenware—she didn't want to look like she was trying too hard, and it was what Pippa and Ada, at least, were used to. She would do a pie in the Dutch oven, and the girls could fry doughnuts, if they wanted. For Pippa, though Hecate didn't mind them either, when they were hers.

As the flame took hold, Hecate put another log on the andirons and a kettle of water on to boil. She could hear the girls stirring upstairs, though it was surprisingly early for them to be awake. The linen-closet door opened, and the extra bedding was returned with grunts of effort followed by a bout of giggling so intense Hecate thought they’d die from a lack of oxygen. Which, with thought to the amount of sleep they’d prevented her from having, was actually not an unpleasant idea. She snorted, shaking her head.

Mildred came downstairs first, with Felicity close behind. They both wore their hair in single plaits down the back of their heads, and Felicity, ever Pippaish in her taste in fashion, had on a short-sleeved white sweater, a full pink skirt, and a swipe of glittery lip gloss.“Good morning, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred said in her usual manner, which was always pleasant no matter her internal state. Felicity had deflated considerably at the sight of her potions mistress, both out of fear and because she was a reminder of their present circumstances. Mildred turned to her and gave a look of reassurance and a small smile before Miss Hardbroom turned to greet them.

She rose from the chair, and Mildred noticed something different that seemed to change the air in the room, just a bit. Miss Hardbroom’s bun was looser. There was a contented light in her eyes, though the muscles in her face fell slack with exhaustion. And she had an air of relaxed gentility about her that made her, suddenly, seem rather handsome and approachable. She could see why Felicity had said she was pretty, now. As Mildred was expecting anger about how late they were awake last night, this was a pleasant surprise. However, her thoughts were interrupted by the high, shrill whistling of the teakettle, and attention was turned to breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to shoehorn Felicity in there somewhere. Sue me, she's my favorite baby gay. I really kind of hate homophobia in fanfic, but I wanted to play around with it, just as an experiment. I honestly don't think it was that successful, hence the need for another chapter for it to get resolved. Tell me what you think.


	7. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Misses Cackle and Pentangle, along with Maud Spellbody and the surprise guest Felicity Foxglove, sit down to tea. Among all the women she cares about, Mildred misses the one she loved most. Also, Felicity's situation is resolved, Maud and Mildred go herb-collecting, and Maud deals with a situation she cannot control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, I write fanfic??? What??? Yeah, I'm back after about FIVE THOUSAND YEARS, but I'm pretty proud of this one, and I hope you enjoy it. Do let me know what you think down below, getting comments makes my day/week/month/year.

Seven hours, several burns, and one bouquet of soft pink roses later, Pippa Pentangle, Ada Cackle, and Maud Spellbody had joined them round the table, and were helping themselves to pie and a pleasant Ceylon that Hecate had paired with the precision with which she did everything. Mildred, knowing her way around flour and butter with some level of competence, had helped with the pastry while Felicity fried the crispy, twisted, ten-inch-long crullers Pippa was currently breaking in half and shoving into her mouth. Overall, the endeavor was quite successful, Hecate thought, and without a great expense of energy.

Still, Hecate contented herself with the brisk freshness of a strong, black cup of tea that felt like being hit in the face with a snowball, only warmer and far less disagreeable. She focused on the outlines of Pippa’s lips as they formed sounds, the way the tip of her tongue rested at her teeth to pop the T in ‘excellent’ as Felicity filled her teacup once more. Pippa had noticed the girl wasn’t herself, and she signalled this to Hecate with a quick flick of her eyes, but Hecate didn’t want to pause to explain why, especially not in front of the others. So, she simply said, “All well at Pentangle’s? I’m terribly sorry to hear about the untimely departure of Miss Greymoor, and I hope you are able to hire a new chanting teacher in short order.”

Pippa got the hint, continuing the conversation without a second thought. “It’s only parental leave, dear Hecate. She will be back next year, and Miss Bat is well able to transfer between schools to fill the gap.”

“Gwyneira Bat had to take a week’s leave of absence after losing her sock. I do not know why you won't hire Miss Darkside as a temporary replacement. But to each her own, I guess.”

Mildred snorted, choking as she held the tea in her mouth so as not to spit it all over the table. Maud turned to stare at her with mirth playing at her own lips as Mildred tried to stop laughing, failing utterly. She managed to swallow, a bit of now-cool tea escaping from her nose. Miss Hardbroom looked appalled, and Miss Cackle put a hand on her shoulder to quiet her as her face stiffened into something sour.

Pippa smirked, not at all in on the joke but glad to see Mildred in such a state so soon after her mother’s funeral. She handed her a napkin. “What was that about?”

“Nothing, Miss Pentangle.”

“Doesn't sound like nothing.”

“I swear, nothing.”

Pippa conceded. “All right.” She rose, beckoning Felicity out of the kitchen with a flick of her wrist. They talked in the parlor, loudly enough for their murmurs to be heard but quietly enough so as not to rule out the presence of a silencing spell.

Hecate turned back to her tea. _Insolent girl,_ she thought, glancing at Mildred out of the corner of her eye. But a girl whose laughter was rare these days, the light in her face coming back in fits and starts. Despite herself, Hecate took a small amount of pride in being able to make Mildred laugh. She didn't know how she did it, and it was  at horribly inappropriate times, but she could do it. It was different to how they’d gotten on even a week before, but something that Hecate could possibly get used to.

After this splendid display, Mildred’s face fell as she remembered pleasant times with Mum, her absence conspicuous in a room full of the other women she cared about. She’d been too busy to think much about it, but now the stillness was deafening, waiting for Miss Pentangle and Felicity to finish their chat with her grief ghostly at the back of her mind. At one point she thought she heard Felicity crying, but she didn’t turn around in her chair to check and see whether it was a figment of her imagination.

Miss Cackle, noticing her distress, decided to engage. “Has Miss Hardbroom been taking you out into the forest, my dear?”

Mildred began to trace circles onto the table, her hair falling in front of her face. “Well, I get a list together with diagrams I’ve drawn from my spellbook, and then I have to retrieve the items on that list. I’m not very good at it, but I like the patch of trees near here and collecting the plants even though I get it wrong all the time.”

“This evening, why don’t you take Maud with you?” Miss Cackle suggested, placing her chin in her hand. “It’s always nice to have an extra set of eyes to see what you do not.”

Hecate swallowed hard as Ada’s hand found the place in between her shoulder blades once again. The warmth of the touch to her aching back urged her to soften her face and say, “Your progress in rudimentary potion-making tasks, gleaned through helping me, has not been unsatisfactory. I do agree, though, that taking Miss Spellbody out on an excursion this evening would be beneficial for you both.” Hecate flicked her eyes toward the parlor, indicating the conversation that was going to have to be had and the reason Felicity wasn't invited. She hoped for a smile, some inkling of positive emotion to let her know that things were all right. She got nothing. It had left in the same rush in which it came, and Mildred Hubble sat empty.

“It'll be fun, Millie,” Maud piped up, taking her friend's hand. “I've never been in this wood, and I'm sure you know where all the best thickets are.”

“It's hard to identify plants at sunset,” Mildred answered softly.

“All the better a job for the two of us, then.”

Mildred nodded, conceding. “All right.”

Felicity and Pippa returned from the parlor hand in hand. Pippa had a protective look in her eye, guarding Felicity not from the others in the room, but from something unseen and all the more harmful for being so. “Are you ready to mirror your mother?”

Felicity looked up at Pippa with a hint of light in her face, a finality to her tone. “Yes, Miss Pentangle.”

There was a long silence. Hecate spoke up, as if to take ownership of the situation. “I’ll explain exactly what has occurred and why. It is, of course, my doing that Miss Foxglove is here.”

Felicity and Pippa nodded, and Felicity was led into the parlor once again, this time by Miss Hardbroom, and they shut the door behind them. Hecate took the small silver mirror in hand and sat down upon her chaise. “By slime of newt and claw of dove, give me audience with Fenella Foxglove,” she said, scrunching her face with distaste that she hoped Felicity didn't notice.

Felicity gulped as her mother's face appeared onscreen. Her face was softer than Felicity had remembered seeing it the day before, and her eyes were dark underneath, like she hadn't slept. She spoke with a thick Welsh  accent tinged with California in a combination that was unique and rather pleasant. But the words that came out of her mouth were croaky with pain. “Hecate Hardbroom. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Miss Hardbroom spoke, her displeasure as to what had transpired the night before oozing from her lips. “Felicity told you something life-changingly important yesterday, afraid that you would react badly, and when you did, became too afraid to leave her room and would not contact her friends. Mildred Hubble, my ward after the death of her mother, mirrored Felicity at nine last night to see if she was all right and asked if she would like to stay the night. She said yes, and I transferred her here. She is next to me now. Would you like to speak to her?”

Mrs Foxglove thought a moment, the longest moment of her daughter's life, before saying “Yes,” and Miss Hardbroom handed the mirror to Felicity as she continued. “Hello, Flic, darling. I'm very glad you're safe, though I do wish you wouldn't run off without telling us, no matter how bad things may get. The news brought up...things I need to deal with in private. It was a bit of a shock. But I would like you to know that you’re welcome home, and that we love you, okay? You have to give us time to adjust, but we've always supported you in anything, and this doesn't change that.”

Residual pain mixed with relief in Felicity's chest, and her eyes filled. She managed to choke out, “I understand, Mom, thank you,” before handing the mirror back to Miss Hardbroom and letting the tears fall. She heard her mother sniffle as well, and the telltale trumpet as she blew into her handkerchief.

Hecate let go of the breath she'd been holding on a near-silent exhale. “I'll have her back to you at six this evening. We have company, including Maud Spellbody, and Felicity would be sorely missed. Is that suitable, Mrs Foxglove?”

“Yes, that's all right. In time for dinner.” Mrs Foxglove took a breath. “Well met, and thank you very much for looking after her, Miss Hardbroom. We were terribly worried.”

Miss Hardbroom's face softened a bit as she shot a glance at Felicity. “You are welcome.”

Mrs Foxglove nodded, cracking a small, forced smile which didn't stop as she said, “All right. By rose’s fruit and violet’s bloom, relieve me of Hecate Hardbroom.” And the mirror went blank.

Hecate inhaled sharply at the sting that Mrs Foxglove’s word choice caused, despite her pleasant demeanor. As if Hecate allying herself with Felicity wasn't enough of a statement, Mrs Foxglove had decided to rub it in her face. Though it was far nicer than the objects Hecate had used to invoke _her_ , hopefully, Hecate thought, her daughter was an exception to this rule. She rose, beckoning to Felicity, who was drying her swollen face. “Come. The others must be waiting for you.”

* * *

 As the light began to fade and the air grew cool, the last pot of tea was nearing its final drops. The girls, despite Miss Hardbroom’s continual protests, were now highly caffeinated and fidgeting far too much for anyone’s taste. Thus, the promised excursion was in order. With much fussing and fanfare and _many_ hugs from all but Miss Hardbroom Felicity was transferred home to her apologetic parents. Mildred had to hide the pang of jealousy that shot through her when she mirrored to say she'd gotten back all right, her mum calling her to eat in the background.

But then cloaks were fetched, a list of plants compiled, a lantern procured, and a basket selected, and in the preparations Mildred forgot her upset. The evening was soft and bright and beautiful, and Mildred and Maud walked out the door, leaving the three adults inside, to go on an adventure. They lifted their knees high over the wall of untameable nettles that had sprung up since Miss Hardbroom's illness. Mildred nursed the thought of plucking them for a moment, as she'd developed a taste for nettle dumplings made with soft farmer cheese from the local market and boiled until they collapsed under the smallest bit of weight from her tongue. But they had not brought gloves, and dark was closing in fast.

There was little sense of foreboding among the girls as they walked, for the forest was calm, and someone had conjured many years ago several floating balls of light that hung between the trees. The items on their list were simple ones, from patches of ground Mildred knew well, giving Maud, at least, enough gall to attempt to converse.

“How have you been?”

“Fine enough. You know everything that's important.”

“No, but...really. I know what's happening, but I don't know how you're feeling. I'm your best friend, Millie. You just lost your mum a month ago. I deserve to know.”

Mildred looked down at the patch of ivy crunching under their feet. “What if I don't want to tell you?” she said out loud, quietly.

“Do you not trust me?”

The space behind Mildred's eyes began to ache. “It's not that, Maud. It just...hurts.”

Maud paused, putting her childish, accusatory words aside. The _that's no excuse_ , and _I can help you but you aren't letting me_ , in favor of a question. “Can I help it not hurt?”

Mildred sighed, sniffling up the tears that were flooding her sinuses like marshland. “No. Just help me by gathering the ruddy valerian.”

Without a word, Maud sat on the ivy-covered ground and pulled the plants nearby from the earth, twisting their bulbs to release the root from the stalk. Once exposed to air, they let off an earthy, overripe stench, like moldy tea leaves. Maud had to hold her hand to her throat to stop herself from gagging, glad that Mildred was off collecting lemon balm and lavender that had escaped Miss Hardbroom's garden many years before and blanketed the clearing with their floral, zesty aromas. She recognized the ingredients for a normal, everyday calming brew, ready for enchantment to make it more potent. Her heart sank a little for her friend, but this was the first time she’d ever faced a problem without a clear solution in sight, and that lack of control birthed resentment. She buried it, though, as Mildred sniffled once again, and scraped the last bit of dirt off of the final root. “Would you like to head back?”

Mildred took a look at her basket, shadowy in the coming darkness. She had thrown in a bunch of raspberry leaves for good measure--she liked the flavor, and they'd find a use for them somehow. “I have loads of everything, so yeah.”

“Right then. Let's go.”

And so they did. Maud once again tried to make small talk, this time about her Gran’s new familiar, Willow, but Mildred once again reacted with few words or a quiet inhale that was meant to be interpreted as a chuckle. In spite of herself, Maud made her irritation known. “Earth to Mildred! My grandmother's kitten _swallowed_ an _entire mouse._ _WHOLE._ It's probably the most horrible thing I've ever seen in my _entire life.”_

Mildred snapped out of her stupor for a moment and said blankly, “Oh. Yeah. That's really awful, Maud.” _I know what the worst thing I've ever seen is, and it's not that,_ she finished in her head. So many women she loved had been in the same room today, and her heart still ached for the one she loved most, the one the others could return to.

“Are you even listening? I'm just going to shut up, I guess.”

“Fine.”

_“Fine?”_

“Maud--I’m tired. And with all the stuff that’s happened, I don’t want to hear about the horrible thing your cat did, okay?”

“My _Gran’s_ cat!” Maud shouted, then conceded. “But point taken. Are you going to help Miss Hardbroom with this potion?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s just ingredients.”

“It’s a sleeping draught. Or it will be.”

“Oh.” Mildred looked down at her feet again, defeated. “I’m sorry I didn’t know.”

“Sweet Morgan le Fay, Mildred!” But Maud didn’t have the words to explain her misplaced annoyance at her friend’s lack of faith in herself, and in her. So when Mildred replied,

“What?”

She couldn't say anything back except “I don't know what to do.”

“Then do nothing.”

“But I can't do nothing.”

Mildred turned, her voice louder than she expected it to be as it cut through the trees. “Why can't you, Maud?” Her head began to ache once again, and her final words came out as a whimper. “Just _do nothing.”_  

“Millie, watch out!”

The pain hit Mildred all at once, a pain from which Maud was spared, walking a few paces behind with the lantern in her hand. A quick, burning tingle that made its way up her leg. The suddenness of it tripped her, and she fell backwards into the wild mass of stinging nettles at the mouth of the forest until she could feel the ground beneath her, the pain in her angry skin clouding her brain.

And there, on the ground, Mildred began to cry.


	8. Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mildred begins to recover, Hecate and Pippa reminisce, and some pains of the heart are resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like this one. I hope you do too.

Mildred couldn't stop crying. All through the shouts for Miss Hardbroom, Miss Pentangle, Miss Cackle, through being transferred to the softness of her bed, Mildred was blinded by her grief. Through Maud's anxious whimpering at her side, stroking her hair as she lie prone, to her final retreat downstairs, the tears continued to float on mad, ugly moans. When the muscles in Mildred's face tightened at last, slowing the sobs by force, she could feel the smarting welts on her arms, lower back, and neck being bathed with warm, rose-scented water and a cloth, and the comfort of it only brought her mother further into the forefront of her mind. She braced for another round of tears, and it came. 

Miss Pentangle spoke out of the misty abyss of the pillow, taking Mildred's left hand in her own. “It's a shame this has happened, darling. It's never fun. But you'll be right as rain by tomorrow evening, just make sure you rest up a bit. Take care of yourself.” A kiss was placed on her left temple, kind and full of pity.

Mildred didn't know that she'd thought out loud until it happened. “I need her. I need my Mum.”

There was a pause. Miss Pentangle didn't reply, too overcome to speak. Her footsteps grew distant as she whispered an apology and left the room. As the cloth crossed Mildred’s neck once again a long-fingered hand nestled itself between her shoulder blades, which were thankfully not afflicted like the rest of her back. It made small, gentle circles, keeping time with the cloth making its way down her right arm. “I do as well,” Miss Hardbroom said finally, her voice low and soft and blanketing Mildred's mind. “I have never met anyone that doesn't.”

Mildred let out another sob, and the circles on her back became more insistent, had more purpose. “Hush, now... Hush... Hush...” came Miss Hardbroom’s cool whisper once again. “I'm done cleansing your stings—the inflammation should go down. Turn your head and have some tea.”

Her phrasing made Mildred aware that this was not, in fact, optional, and Hecate's face relaxed as her ward turned to her with a slight wince and took a sip from the deep saucer that was held to her lips. The increased surface area of the liquid in the saucer made sure it cooled to blood heat after the magical properties were extracted, and Hecate stifled a smile as Mildred winced at the bitterness. “It's the herbs you collected, raspberry leaf included, boiled too hard on a quick fire with a few incantations to soothe your pain. I was too...agitated to make it taste better. My apologies.”  _ Worried. Distressed. Afraid. _

Mildred's face was red, turning white as the irritation of salt came down. Her forehead spasmed again as her sinuses cleared of their residual fluid, a jab that lasted longer than it should. Her tears had slowed, but the pain in her skin and muscles was worse, and every movement caused a cringe, however slight. All of which made the potion all the more necessary. “A sleeping elixir,” she said, eyes half-closed.

Hecate's eyes twinkled in an expression of pride that didn't make its way to her mouth, and that Mildred didn't see. “It becomes an elixir when one makes it with mead or brandy. This is a sleeping  _ tisane _ . I wouldn't dare give you alcohol.”

“Oh.”

“Here,” Hecate said, holding the saucer to Mildred’s lips once again. “Drink.”

Mildred drank. Her voice was made gravelly by exhaustion. “I must be cursed. Either that or it's all my fault.”

The words struck Hecate like a cauldron to the head. Before she could think, she’d spat a riposte. “You wretched girl! If you  _ ever _ say either of those things in my house again, I'll turn you into an unruly bonsai tree to be pruned once a week.”

Mildred's response was even more shocking. “Go ahead.” But her eyelids smoothed out and her lips formed an easy smile, for she was too tired to laugh, and that same surge of pride superseded the blow in Hecate's mind. 

Hecate's voice mellowed again, and she inhaled dryly as she spoke. “You, Mildred, are simply very, very unlucky. And just because we learn to live without our mothers does not mean we ever stop needing them.”

Mildred gave a sniff as she began to fade out of consciousness, and with her last tear the lines in her forehead smoothed. On the exhale before the embrace of sleep took her, she said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

* * *

Hecate rose and left the room on near-silent feet, padding downstairs to join Ada and Pippa near the cozy peat fire. They sat spinning Sinatra on the turntable, the pops and clicks of the old vinyl harmonizing with Pippa's knitting needles and the crackles of the logs on the hearth. As Hecate’s feet hit the landing Pippa put down her knitting and opened her arms, making space for her on the worn leather-bound loveseat that had been transferred from Hecate's office. Hecate let her braid tumble down her back as her head found its usual place on Pippa's shoulder, the rest of her body curling up like a cat as she kicked off her shoes, revealing delicate feet in thick, black, usually-winter stockings. She spoke softly, comfortably, nosing herself into a good position. “She's asleep now. There's nothing more I can do. Did the Spellbody girl get home safely?”

“Maud is all right. Her Mum transferred her home about fifteen minutes ago. Tell Mildred to message her in the morning, okay?”

“All right. I don't know if she'll be up by morning, but I'll make her aware. She needs to rest—she's fatigued.”

“I'm not surprised. She cried for at least a half hour. Poor thing.”

Hecate shook her head in dismay. “It's a pity. She’s making good progress in her studies, and it seems like she’s beginning to enjoy them. When she recovers, I’ll teach her how to brew her own calming potions, and possibly one to help her focus.”

Pippa smiled, stroking Hecate's hair. “I was thinking garlic soup. Like Leonora would make for us.”

Hecate had never quite gotten over the fact that her mother had let Pippa call her by her first name, when to everyone else she was  _ Señora,  _ no questions asked. Well, Hecate had only gotten that formal when she wanted something— _ mamá _ was sufficient most of the time—but it never ceased to amaze her that Pippa was never put in her place. Then again, her mother loved Pippa with an intensity that paralleled her love for her daughter, and until her dying day, when Hecate was thirty-five, would always ask for news of  _ “tu amiguita, querida, de niña.” _ But her mother's  _ sopa de ajo, _ simmered thick and fragrant with ribbons of egg and the bite of hot  _ pimentón,  _ brought to the table a comfort that made her almost want to laugh. It was cheap food, peasant food, but, eating it with Pippa by her side in the days after Yule before classes started up again, it was magical.

From Pippa’s shoulder thirty years later, Hecate bristled at the thought of sharing something like that with Mildred Hubble. Something that special, that important, like breaking a rib to open her heart. “No.”

Hecate could feel Pippa's disappointment on the back of her neck as she spoke. “Hiccup, she needs you. She needs someone to help her build good things.”

Pippa's words pricked tiny holes into Hecate's soul, which was flimsy with her own feelings of inadequacy. Her voice cracked in response. “And how could that  _ ever _ be me? I can offer all the comfort I am able, but I'm not—. I can't, Pipsqueak.”

“Not her mother?” Ada put down her book from the armchair where she sat in exasperation. “But you  _ are _ Hecate Hardbroom. You'll figure it out. You clearly have affection for the child. Let that guide you.”

Hecate cringed again. “But that involves...expressing it.”

“You're in Pippa's arms being cuddled like a kitten.”

“Pippa is Pippa.” Hecate paused to press her head into Pippa's shoulder as her left hand began to stroke her hair. “Pippa is warm. And knows how not to irritate me.”

“And you are  _ freezing  _ cold. And loathe being touched unless it's for three hours straight,” Pippa piped up, taking one of Hecate's icy hands in her own and kissing her thin cheek.

“Can Mildred see it too?” Hecate asked, in general and to no one in particular.

Ada looked beyond her reading glasses. “I think so.”

“Fine,” Hecate said sleepily, now craving the warmth of the soup herself. “She does need to eat.”

 

* * *

Hecate remembered the next morning why  _ Mamá _ always made  _ sopa de ajo _ after a party, just as the sun was rising. The smell worked better than Wide-Awake Potion to get one going even as rain fell in sheets outside, entering the nostrils with a punchy jolt that nothing could replicate. As she placed the pot on a spider to simmer she cooled the fire with a controlled contraction of her hand. Her shoulders relaxed until they could barely be called soft, even with the thrum of pain in her spine and ribs, the rhythm of the food filling her soul.

Pippa sat at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of fresh chicken stock with gelatine floating fluid and glassy on top, undeterred by the stink that filled the kitchen. “It smells like home,” she said, inhaling deeply.

Hecate, understanding her metaphor non-literally, could only answer with “Like my mother's house.”

“There's no place else, is there?”

“There is the Academy. And here.”

“Right. But neither of them routinely smell this much like garlic. I'm always transported back to your mum's kitchen.”

Hecate sniffed, stiffened. “You're aware that she loved you? More than I did...at the time. She carried a deep affection for the world that I can't manage to emulate.”

Pippa started, surprised. The words that left her mouth stood on their own, her voice thick and rich as she breathed through the emotions that were filling her. “You were her world, Hecate. She loved me, but you were  _ hers.  _ Uniquely hers. And I know you can't see it, darling, but you have that same affection. For nature, for the craft, and, dare I say it, for other people's lanky, lonely little children.”

Hecate laughed low as Pippa's eyebrows rose in triumph. “I only like the ones with  _ potential,” _ she answered bitterly, knowing full well that Pippa knew they  _ all  _ had potential, but feeling the vulnerability of being reminded of her own soft spots firsthand. And yes, she did get irritated when they didn't live up to that potential. Or degraded themselves out of fear of their power or a misplaced sense of self-righteousness. That was justified, she thought, and didn't negate any of her fondness for them. More comfortable expressing positive emotion under the guise of exaggerated theatrics, she found herself respected, feared only when necessary. That was how she liked it.

Mildred padded downstairs on light feet, adjusting to the dim dampness of the kitchen after a second of instability. “Morning,” she said blearily, the pain of the previous evening having faded to a maddening but distractible background itch.

Pippa, with enough spare love to mother the entire world, greeted Mildred as she always did: with a hug that lasted until the girl melted a little bit into her, limp in the warmth. The sting was sufferable if it meant the human contact that no one else wanted to provide.

“Good morning, Mildred,” Hecate said from the fire, lighting the lamp on the table with a wave of her hand. “There is soup for breakfast. Don't mind the smell, it's for your benefit.”

She hadn't intended for it to be a joke. But Mildred let loose a loud, broken peal of laughter as she sat down across from Pippa, which was followed by a clap of thunder and a slight slump of her shoulders. The smile that graced Hecate's lips in the coming moments was only seen by the flames as she ladled the thick, aromatic soup into a bowl. There were two things, now, in which she was surprised by her surety: her ability to make Mildred eat, and her ability to make Mildred laugh. Her mother would be amused, if not proud.

“Now come. Eat,” she said, passing the bowl to Mildred as she stood by Pippa's side, “It will help.” Help what, she didn't say, as she went to get a serving for herself. It was too...soft. And she knew Mildred could figure it out.


End file.
